The Axeman’s Jazz

by Ray Celestin

  ‘You know New Orleans was the first city in America to have the Mafia?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s a dubious honor, but one we hold nonetheless. Up north, in New York and Chicago, the Mafia’s from all different parts of Sicily – Palermo; Catania; Messina; Siracusa. That’s why they’re always killing each other. Not in New Orleans. There’s never been a real war between families here, at least not one that’s spilled out into open bloodshed. It’s because here they’re all from the same little town in Sicily – Monreale. And they stick together like glue. No fighting, no vendettas. They’re organized and they get on with their business.’

  Kerry frowned. ‘How comes you know so much about the Mafia?’ he asked, and Michael paused for a moment and shrugged. He had spent years in the company of Mafiosi while he was under Luca’s tutelage, and he knew the history and character of the families better than any detective in the bureau. It was a strange position to be in, and one that he had never quite gotten used to – a white cop of Irish descent, married to a colored woman, working for a Sicilian crime family. It would never have come about had it not been for the meticulousness of his handlers at the District Attorney’s office, who had arranged for him to infiltrate Luca’s gang.

  After the Abner affair, Michael was demoted to beat duty for six months. Then the men arranged for a consignment of fur coats to come into his possession. Michael approached Luca with the coats, and claimed they were from a cousin in St Louis, a hijacker, who was looking to get rid of them out of town. Luca took the coats and sold them on, and a month and a half later Michael was given a set of gold watches which he passed on to Luca, too. Over the next year, the stolen goods kept coming, cigarettes, whiskey, jewelry, ammunition, designer dresses. Luca took them all off Michael’s hands and, as the two grew close, Michael was accepted into Luca’s gang.

  The gang was involved in everything the Family was involved in – extortion, hijacking, fencing, gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking, counterfeiting. Michael learned about the deals they had with the mayor’s administration; he met Carlo Matranga on a number of occasions; he heard the rumors about the torture squad that Hatener operated; he even participated when they were framing people. In the time Michael served as Luca’s protégé, he was, by his own count, involved in sending as many as fourteen innocent men to Angola on false evidence. He kept a ledger on every one, and each time a new man fell victim to the gang, he was told by his handlers that the man would be retried and acquitted once Michael’s undercover duties were over. But when the investigation finished and Luca was indicted, the bosses refused to reopen the cases, something that left Michael with a searing sense of guilt.

  They finished their coffees and Michael stood. He picked up the bill and took it to the cashier, who tried not to stare at the scars on his face as she counted out his change. Michael was used to people staring and it wasn’t something that ever bothered him. The smallpox had led him to the smallpox ward, and it was there that he had met Annette, the only nurse on the staff who didn’t seem to pity him. So as much as the scars marred his looks, they were also a reminder of the means by which he had found his wife. People could stare if they wanted.

  When they stepped back out into the street, the rain and wind bristled against their skin and they hurried the few blocks to the last address on their list. Paolo Umigliani lived in a hostel for bachelors on a narrow street at the edge of Little Italy. They found the place above a dusty, glum shop that sold Singer sewing machines and spools of thread whose rainbow colors had long since faded. The hostel was reached by a cramped, low-ceilinged staircase that smelled of disinfectant and tobacco. The old man who ran the hostel told them in a disdainful voice that Umigliani wasn’t in, but he could normally be found at a barber’s shop a block to the south, ‘with the rest of the Unione Siciliana,’ he added sarcastically, spitting out the words.

  The barber’s was located in a corner building on a road of shabby shops and market stalls huddled underneath waxed sheets. Despite the rain, a few ragged children were running up and down the street, splashing mud at each other and playing catch. Michael paused as they got close to the barber’s and took a step behind one of the stalls, motioning for Kerry to do the same. He peered round the corner, through the large sheet-glass window that fronted the barber’s, where a group of burly Italian men lounged about. Michael recognized a few of the faces from his days with Luca, especially a swaggering man a few years younger than him who looked like he was holding court in the waiting area at the front of the shop.

  ‘You see the big guy in the fur?’

  Kerry peered across the street at the shop and nodded.

  ‘That’s Silvestro “Sam” Carolla,’ said Michael. ‘He’s Don Carlo’s underboss. The number two Mafioso in the city.’

  Michael had met Silvestro countless times, mainly at meetings Luca had organized. Silvestro was Don Carlo’s nephew and despite being loudmouthed and unpopular, he had risen up the ranks to the level of heir apparent. People thought of Luca as the natural successor to Carlo – sharp, well-liked, charming – everything Silvestro wasn’t. But because of family ties and family history, Silvestro had ended up being number two. It was obvious Carlo had reservations about passing on his empire to a man as brash and egotistical as his nephew, so Silvestro lived life as a perpetual deputy, frustrated and humiliated. And now he had cropped up in the middle of the Axeman investigation.

  ‘I’m gonna go in. You wanna stay here and keep an eye out?’ Michael asked, offering Kerry an excuse not to enter the barber’s. Kerry thought for a moment, and Michael could see a hint of trepidation on his face.

  ‘No. I’ll come,’ he said, eventually.

  Michael smiled and they stepped out from behind the stall and strode across the muddy street into the barber’s. A bell rang as Michael entered and Silvestro and a few of the men sitting around the coffee table by the front door turned his way and the room went quiet.

  Michael saw that apart from a little extra weight, Silvestro hadn’t changed much. Macassared hair slicked back from a sneering face, a jailbird scar across one cheek, coal-nugget eyes and a hooked nose so prominent it made the rest of his features look as if they were receding.

  They stared at each other, Michael with a cold, earthy grimace, Silvestro with an expression of unrestrained surprise, as if a man he knew to be on the other side of the world had just stepped into the shop. He frowned and the surprise was replaced by a lean, bloodless smile.

  ‘Hello, Mikey,’ he said, using an abbreviation he knew Michael disliked. ‘You here for a haircut?’

  Silvestro’s pronunciation was slow and nasal. Michael noticed he hadn’t lost his Italian accent over the years, but it had been subdued, strangled by a heavy Southern drawl.

  ‘I’m looking for Paolo Umigliani,’ Michael said, peering around the room in an attempt to look casual. The place was long and narrow, receding like a corridor into the distance. Two barbers were at work, and in the far depths, a group of younger men loitered in the shadows. Michael guessed if Umigliani was in the shop, he would be among this group, but with the length of the room and the lack of light, he couldn’t make any of them out clearly.

  Silvestro smiled and fingered the diamond-encrusted pin that held his necktie in place. Michael had seen the pin, or one like it, on sale in the jewelry department at D. H. Holmes and he remembered the price worked out to about half his annual salary. Carolla had always compensated for his battered looks with an expensive wardrobe, and Michael wondered at the cost of the man’s black fur coat and the gold rings smattered across his fingers.

  ‘Why ya asking after Paolo?’ said Silvestro, the smile disappearing.

  Michael shrugged. ‘You know, the usual.’

  He noticed the barbers had stopped their work to gawp. The ageing one closest to them had all but frozen, the foam-clotted razor in his hand dangling in the air next to his customer’s neck.

  ‘Who’s the kid?’ Silvestro asked Michael, gesturing in
Kerry’s direction. ‘Got a new sweetheart?’

  The rest of the men burst into laughter laced with sycophancy and a kind of relief. Silvestro smiled again, and made eye contact with Kerry.

  ‘Don’t stick with him too long, kid. You’ll probably end up in prison with the rest of the PD.’

  Some of the others snickered and Silvestro grinned.

  ‘So, is Umigliani here? Or do I have to ask you all for ID?’ Michael asked, rocking on his heels. Silvestro glared at him, and they held each other’s gaze long enough for everyone in the room to get uncomfortable. In the corner of his vision Michael could see Silvestro’s cohorts getting tense, their hands moving slowly towards the weapons concealed in their pockets, and he wondered if he hadn’t miscalculated the situation. He decided to go for broke and bluff some more.

  ‘I ain’t got all day,’ he said in a singsong voice.

  He could feel Kerry looking about the room at the barbers and the menacing suits, and he could hear the muffled sound of rain beating against the windows. He made a show of sweeping his eyes over the place. On the counter underneath the mirrors were razors and packets of pomade, blue china cups holding brushes, and glass cabinets filled with ointments, disinfectant, and folded, steam-pressed towels.

  Without shifting his gaze, Silvestro waved his men down, then he turned and peered into the depths of the shop to the group of younger men.

  ‘Paolo!’ he shouted.

  In the distance, a gaunt and sallow-eyed young man stood up.

  ‘Sì, capo,’ he said in a weak, reedy voice.

  ‘Vieni qui.’

  The man sloped to the front of the shop, passing a row of poster-size advertisements on the back wall for hair tonic, Beaumont soap and Colgate’s Ribbon Dental Cream. When he reached Silvestro, he stopped and bowed his head as if he was a crucifer in mass.

  ‘Va’ con il cafone,’ said Silvestro, nodding his head towards Michael, who knew enough Italian to recognize the insult. ‘E ritorna presto.’

  The man frowned at Silvestro in an antsy, schoolboyish way.

  ‘Ma, capo—’ he pleaded.

  ‘Sbrigati!’ Silvestro shouted, showing anger for the first time. A look of panic crossed the young man’s face, then he bowed his head again and took a railroad jacket and a black homburg from the stand next to the door. Silvestro turned back to look at Michael.

  ‘Paolo’ll help you out,’ he said.

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Michael. ‘See you ’round, Sam.’ He tipped his hat at Silvestro and turned towards the exit.

  ‘You’re supposed to be investigating the Axeman, aren’t ya?’ said Silvestro, a vague irritation in his voice.

  Michael paused, turned to face Silvestro again and nodded.

  ‘Then why ya coming round here? Ya should be in Back o’ Town. Looking for niggers.’ He spat the final word, and Michael tensed up yet again. ‘Seems like everyone in New Orleans knows what color o’ skin the Axeman got, ’cept you,’ Silvestro said, before shrugging theatrically.

  ‘Yeah, how you so sure about it?’ asked Michael.

  Silvestro grinned at him.

  ‘I asked your wife.’

  At this the room burst into laughter again, and Michael felt foolish for walking straight into Silvestro’s trap. A nauseous feeling knotted his stomach and he tried his hardest not to let his emotions show.

  The laughter continued for a few seconds longer, then the same edged silence returned.

  Michael turned to Kerry.

  ‘Come on. We got what we came here for,’ he said, failing to stop the dolor seeping into his voice. Kerry nodded and took Umigliani by the elbow, and Michael turned to walk back out onto the street. As he stepped into the entranceway, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass panel inset in the door – a pale, tired face, warped by smallpox, spectral and translucent against the image of the rainy street beyond. The reflection staring back at him seemed strange, at odds with the self-image he carried around in his head, and Michael realized with a sinking feeling how he must look to Silvestro and his men. He turned the handle and swung the door wide.

  ‘Hey, Michael,’ Silvestro shouted over the sound of the rain pouring away in the street, ‘you ain’t never gonna find the Axeman. Ya chasing a ghost.’

  But Michael was already outside. Kerry and Umigliani followed him, and Umigliani shivered at the cold before putting the black homburg onto his head.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet,’ Michael said, without looking either of them in the eye.

  They made their way down the street until they came to an empty alleyway. It was narrow, nothing more than a mud track between two tenements, where some broken guttering above was splashing rainwater onto a clump of garbage cans. They turned into the alley, and found a recess in one of the walls where a set of coal-delivery doors had been boarded up. Under the recess was a dry, covered space and they sheltered there to keep from the downpour.

  Michael peered at Umigliani, inspecting him up close for the first time. He had a sorry, hollow face, and his downturned open mouth made him look a little simple. The homburg he was wearing was too big for him and sloped to one side of his head. Michael wondered if Umigliani had picked up the wrong hat, so badly did it fit him, its smartness so incongruous with the rest of his scruffy, frayed outfit. This man was no killer, but he was in Carolla’s clique, and he might have useful information.

  ‘We checked your record, Umigliani,’ Michael said. ‘Date you got released is about the time the Axeman started killing people. And now we find you in the company of known criminals. It doesn’t look good.’

  Umigliani shifted his gaze between Kerry and Michael, and Michael noticed the blackness around his eyes, the slack, quivering jaw.

  ‘I . . . I not the Axeman,’ he said in a stutter, speaking too fast and tripping over his words. He had an Italian accent, stronger than Silvestro’s, and the poor grammar made him sound childlike.

  ‘Kerry, check his pockets, please.’

  Kerry hesitated for a moment, then stood in front of Umigliani and asked him to raise his arms. Umigliani did so and Kerry patted him down. With his arms outstretched and his mismatched hat and railroad jacket, Umigliani reminded Michael of a scarecrow come to life, moth-eaten and blank-faced.

  Michael thought of something Luca had once told him – that street-gangs would occasionally take local mentally backward boys under their protection. They’d act the friend and keep the boys around as entertainment, butts for their jokes and as gofers to fetch things from the local store. The boys were usually lonely and ostracized and enjoyed the camaraderie, even if it occasionally turned harsh. But at some point the gang would set the boy up for a job committed by someone else. The boys were rarely in a position to defend themselves and so they worked out as the perfect patsies. Michael looked at the empty expression on Umigliani’s face and wondered about his seven years in Angola.

  Kerry fished through the man’s pockets and found a bundled-up cloth in the breast pocket of his jacket. He frowned, unfolded the cloth and found inside a fistful of dark-green marijuana. It was a compacted lump, dry and fragrant against the moldy scent of the alleyway.

  Kerry and Michael looked at each other and an expression of dismay came over Umigliani’s face. He started muttering to himself softly, but with speed and concern.

  ‘That’s not yours, is it?’ Michael asked.

  Umigliani shook his head and stared at his feet.

  ‘You know this got made illegal, right? While you were in prison?’ Michael said. Umigliani nodded and looked like he was about to start crying. Michael didn’t have the heart to arrest him. Umigliani was just another dupe – exploited by his friends, being set up for sorrows further down the line. Michael could see the man had a future filled with bad fortune and he wasn’t going to add to it just now.

  ‘I’m not gonna arrest you for this, Paolo,’ he said, adopting a tone he used when explaining things to children. ‘But you gotta promise to stop doing favors like this for your
friends back there, OK?’ he continued, holding up the marijuana. ‘You don’t wanna end up back in Angola.’

  ‘No, no.’ Umigliani shook his head and continued muttering to himself.

  Michael nodded at Kerry and Kerry wrapped up the cloth and handed it back to Umigliani, who took it and bowed his head in a servile, cowed way.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ he said.

  ‘No problem, Paolo,’ said Michael, and then he turned to Kerry. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here. He ain’t no Axeman.’ Kerry nodded and they stepped out into the rain. Four suspects and a wet and wasted day. They took a couple of steps through the miry alleyway before they heard the voice stuttering behind them.

  ‘I . . . I tell you about the Axeman.’

  They stopped and turned to see Umigliani standing in the rain, smiling at them. ‘To . . . to say thank you,’ he added.

  Michael shared a look with Kerry then turned back to face Umigliani.

  ‘What do you know?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Mm, everybody asking who . . . who is the Axeman?’ said Umigliani, in his broken English. ‘No one know, but I know s-something.’

  Michael nodded at Umigliani to continue.

  ‘My cousin, he . . . he knows a man. He said he knew who the . . . the Axeman was. And then . . . he wasn’t there anymore.’

  ‘You mean the man disappeared?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Si,’ said Umigliani. ‘Dis . . . appeared.’

  Umigliani took off his hat and wiped the rain from his brow with a shivering hand and Michael caught a glimpse of dirty nails chewed to the nub.

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Michael. ‘The name of the man your cousin knows?’

  Umigliani smiled.

  ‘’Manno. ’Manno Lo . . . Lombardi.’

  At the mention of the name, Kerry and Michael stared at each other – Riley’s tip-off.

  ‘You know where I can find him, Paolo?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Mmm. No. He dis-disappeared.’

  ‘How about where he lived?’

  Umigliani shook his head. ‘I know where he worked . . . the Vieux Ca . . . Carré,’ he said, mispronouncing the French. ‘He fixes cars for . . . O’Neil.’