by Ray Celestin
Lewis had warned Ida his friend would probably be late, so she had brought along the newspaper to pass the time, and now she read aloud the Axeman’s letter, while Lewis and the barman listened in. Lewis was propped up on a stool next to Ida, nursing a beer, and the barman was shaking his head ruefully at each bizarre statement Ida read out, as if listening to the reckoning of a man’s sins.
‘This just don’t fit in with you-know-who,’ said Ida after she’d finished, conscious of the barman’s presence.
‘Don’t make a lick o’ sense,’ said Lewis. ‘Newspaper probably just faked the whole thing to sell a few copies.’
‘That’s what I’d do if I owned the paper,’ the barman said, peering at the two of them knowingly.
‘If you owned the paper,’ said Lewis with a grin, ‘it woulda gone bust by now.’
The barman frowned at him and sauntered off down the length of the bar.
‘He spelled Franz Joseph wrong,’ Ida said.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ Lewis replied, rubbing his eyes.
There is nothing so important as trifles, Ida thought to herself. ‘It might be someone’s trying to cover their tracks,’ she said.
The front door swung open and a gangly Negro a little older than them strutted in. He scanned the room and smiled when he saw Lewis, who signaled him over with a wave.
‘How you coming?’ the man said with a grin, and Ida watched as they hugged each other and shook hands in a complicated series of choreographed moves. The man had a hustler’s swagger and clothes to match – a brown felt Stetson, Burtenard and Wager trousers, wingtip shoes and a gold watch-chain that swung from a velvet waistcoat. Lewis and the man took a moment to look each other up and down, then the man grinned and shook his head.
‘Shit, blacker’n me, you getting so fat, when I came in I thought there was an eight-ball sitting at the bar,’ he said, and they burst out into raucous laughter that woke up the men at the table, who glanced about them for a few seconds, then closed their eyes and drifted off once more.
‘Ida, this is Cocaine Buddy,’ said Lewis. ‘Buddy, Ida Davis.’
Buddy smiled and tipped his Stetson at Ida before taking it off with a flourish. They ordered another beer for Buddy and moved to one of the tables out of the barman’s earshot. After their order had been served and they were alone, they clinked bottles and smiled.
‘So what’s new?’ asked Lewis.
‘Nothing,’ said Buddy, ‘white man still on top. What you wanna see me ’bout?’
Lewis filled Buddy in on their investigations and Buddy listened with a smile on his face, and when Lewis had finished he laughed and shook his head.
‘Well, I’ll be. You still crazy, Lil’ Louey,’ he said. ‘You want hell on your hands? Ain’t you ever heard o’ Morval?’
‘Sure I heard,’ said Lewis. ‘I spoke to Lulu about it.’
‘Lulu White?’ asked Buddy, lighting a cigarette. ‘That ol’ dyke? I didn’t even know she was still alive.’
Ida grimaced, annoyed by the curse word and Buddy’s offhand tone. The man grated on her, the swagger, the arrogance, the wisecracks. Back o’ Town was full of men like him, and as far as Ida was concerned it was men like him who made Back o’ Town the slum it was.
After they’d received the address from Leeta, Ida had discussed with Lewis how best to go about breaking into the basement of the house, and Lewis had suggested he ask Buddy to help them out. He was one of Lewis’s oldest friends and an expert housebreaker. Ida wasn’t sure about bringing in someone she didn’t know, but as Lewis had explained, it would be stupid of them to attempt to break into a house when neither of them knew what they were doing. Especially when the house was a stash-spot for Morval. They needed help, and Buddy was it.
‘OK. Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask around, case the joint, see if it’s worth my while. Purely as a favor to my old pal. When you want this done by?’
Lewis shrugged and turned to look at Ida, and Ida cleared her throat. ‘There ain’t a deadline,’ she said, ‘but we ’d like to get it done as soon as possible.’
Buddy smiled. ‘What a sheba,’ he said to Lewis while gesturing in Ida’s direction, further riling her. ‘Gimme a couple o’ days,’ Buddy said, after taking a sip of his beer. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He smiled at them both again, returned the Stetson to his head and sauntered out of the bar. Ida watched the man go, wondering how long it would be before they could break into the house and find the evidence Leeta claimed was in there. They stayed a while longer, finishing their drinks to the sound of Marion Harris looping over and over again on the Victrola. The honky-tonk was the sorrowful kind of place where people came to lose themselves, and Ida was glad when they finally stood up to leave, passing by the three sleeping men in their church clothes, still lost in their drunken haze.
40
After the press conference Michael returned to the precinct and wandered around the bureau asking the various teams if they had any information on a man named Pietro, a tough guy and possible pederast who worked the doors of a nightclub in the Tango Belt. A detective in Vice, a slack-eyed young man with an easy smile, said he remembered arresting someone on a molestation charge named Pietro a few months previously. The detective couldn’t remember his second name, but the descriptions matched, so Michael went through the detective’s arrest reports and eventually found the right one.
Pietro Amanzo – arrested most recently on Christmas Eve. Found by the vice officer in a car in Storyville with an underage girl at four in the morning. Amanzo claimed he was a friend of the girl’s father and he was driving her back home from a stay out of town. For some reason the girl’s father corroborated the story and the charges were dropped.
Michael went on to check Amanzo’s personal file which was thick with arrest reports and court records. He had been in trouble with the police since his teens, for infractions that oscillated between severely violent assaults and child abuse. Amanzo had been sent to juvenile detention at fourteen for attacking his younger sister, and was released at eighteen, when he started working for known mob figures. His file was peppered with arrests from then on; every few months he was picked up either for violent behavior and unprovoked attacks, or for being caught in compromising situations with underage girls. He’d served two six-month sentences, and one eighteen-month sentence in Angola. His known associates included low-level Family members and an informer for Vice. The file still contained a home address, an apartment above a shop in the Tango Belt.
Michael signed out a paddy-wagon and drove over to the address, with Kerry and three blue-coats, just to be on the safe side. They parked a block away and made their way to the building on foot. They found the street-door open, so stepped inside, went up the stairs and knocked on Amanzo’s door. A short man of swarthy paesano stock opened it.
‘Pietro Amanzo?’ said Michael.
‘Yeah. Who’s asking?’ Michael turned to stare at the men in police uniforms next to him, and Amanzo grinned broadly at his own joke.
‘The tooth fairy,’ said Michael, holding up his badge. ‘We want to talk to you about the murder of Ermanno Lombardi.’
‘That faggot?’ said Amanzo, and he laughed in an obnoxious, dismissive way.
‘I can arrest you if you want,’ Michael said, keeping his temper.
Amanzo glared at him then nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and he grabbed a coat from a rack by the door and pushed past Michael towards the stairs.
When they returned to the precinct, Michael sat Amanzo down in one of the smaller interview rooms and uncuffed him. Amanzo curled his lip and stared at the far wall in a surly, adolescent way. Michael ignored him and placed his paperwork on the table, not because he needed it, but because he wanted to scare Amanzo into thinking there was already a weight of evidence against him. Next Michael took his silver cigarette case and his matches from his pocket and placed them by the paperwork, and moved the ashtray to the center of the table for the both of
them to share.
Kerry arrived with coffees, put them on the table and sat to one side with a notebook.
‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ Michael said when Kerry was settled. ‘Were you acquainted with a man called Ermanno Lombardi?’
‘Sure,’ Amanzo replied, glaring at Michael across the wooden table that separated them.
‘What was the nature of your acquaintance?’
‘He’s Sicilian, I’m Sicilian. I saw him around.’ Amanzo shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on Michael. Michael opened his cigarette case, took a Virginia Bright from it and lit up. He offered one to Amanzo, who grimaced and shook his head. Michael shrugged, took a drag and smiled.
‘You ever work with Lombardi?’
‘With a fruit? Never.’
‘Word is you palmed jobs off to him,’ Michael pressed.
Amanzo said nothing and continued staring at him. The constant glare was supposed to be disconcerting, a gangster’s trick that had lost its effect on Michael years before.
‘Are you aware that Lombardi was killed last week?’
‘Sure.’
‘How did you hear?’
‘Word gets around,’ Amanzo replied, and a broad grin spread across his thin, bloodless lips. Michael heard the sound of Amanzo’s feet tapping against the black-and-white checks of the linoleum floor. The room was bare except for the table and chairs, and the sound reverberated with a shrill hollowness.
‘Where were you the night Lombardi was killed?’ asked Michael, pressing on with the list of questions he wanted to get out of the way.
‘A t work. The Kitty-Kat Club.’
‘Oh yeah? That’s funny.’
‘Why?’ asked Amanzo.
‘Because I never told you what night he was killed.’
Amanzo stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. ‘I’m at the club every night.’
‘Yeah?’ said Michael. ‘You got any witnesses for last Monday?’
‘No. But I can get ’em,’ said Amanzo, smirking.
Michael smiled, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
‘I heard you had Lombardi cheese-wired because he started shooting his mouth off about the Axeman.’
Amanzo flinched, a blink of movement, but Michael noticed it.
‘You heard wrong,’ said Amanzo, a little too quickly.
‘Yeah? I heard you gave Lombardi a job to do cuz you heard he was leaving town, and when it turned out he was sticking around, you clipped him to cover your tracks.’
Amanzo stared at Michael, the menace in his eyes replaced momentarily by a realization that Michael knew more than he should.
‘I heard you asked Lombardi to drop off a list of Axeman victims out in the bayou.’
Michael could see the doubt spreading across Amanzo’s face and the attempts the man was making to keep it from showing. Michael took the opportunity to make an offer.
‘Come clean, Amanzo. We got witnesses to prove you gave the job to Lombardi. Enough evidence to have you electrocuted.’
Amanzo leaned back in his chair, took a slow sip from his cup and stared at Michael over the rim, dark eyes shining through the curling steam.
‘This is the death penalty,’ Michael said, pressing on. ‘It isn’t a drunken assault. Tell us what you know and we’ll drop your involvement. You can carry on just as you were. Running doors, touching up kids, beating up anyone who says you’re not a man because you like fucking little girls.’
Amanzo jumped at Michael in a flash. Michael dodged and kicked the table so it caught Amanzo in the gut. Amanzo bent over, winded, and Kerry rushed behind him and pushed his head onto the table. He squirmed and tried to lash out, but Michael held him down and Kerry returned the cuffs to his hands. They lifted him up and dropped him back into his seat.
‘You OK, son?’ asked Michael, and Kerry nodded, breathing heavily. They looked over to Amanzo, who was panting, and glaring at them with wild eyes, greasy hair astray.
‘Fucking pigs,’ he muttered. ‘I ain’t even under arrest.’
Michael peered at him and shrugged.
‘You’re under arrest now. For assaulting a police officer,’ Michael spat, and Amanzo laughed and shook his head.
‘I wanna see a lawyer,’ he said in a stony, clamped voice.
‘You wanna a lawyer? Fine. I’ll press charges on the assault. Answer my questions and you can walk out of here in fifteen minutes.’
Amanzo paused and thought for a moment. He stared at the scratches on the table in front of him and suddenly looked shaky, conflicted.
‘If I tell you, I die.’
Michael sighed and sat back down in his chair.
‘Amanzo, I’m gonna check your alibis for the night, I’m gonna search your house, I’m gonna talk to your friends, to your enemies. I’m gonna find something. We both know I’m gonna find something, so save us the trouble and you can walk out of here a free man.’
‘You just gonna forget about the faggot?’ he said. ‘I’m already dead.’
Amanzo sat back and scowled at Michael, and Michael realized from the man’s expression that he wouldn’t talk. His only option was to keep pushing him in the hope that he would let something slip. He booked him for the assault and sent him back to his cell to await a lawyer.
Michael knew how it would pan out. In a few hours the lawyer would arrive and the next day Amanzo would be up in front of a judge, where he’d either make bail or be sent to jail. Either outcome left Amanzo liable to being killed by someone who wanted him out of the way, and when word of his arrest got out, someone would definitely want him out of the way. By bringing in Amanzo, Michael had set a clock ticking, and it was only a matter of time before someone made a move, either against Amanzo or against Michael, and Michael needed to be prepared for it. He was reaching the endgame, but he didn’t have a clue what his next move should be.
REPORT OF HOMICIDE
Department of Police
Fourth Precinct, New Orleans
Thurs. May 8th 1919
Name of Person Killed:
Carmelita Smith, colored
Residence:
1503 Robertson Street
Business:
Prostitute
Name of accused:
Unknown
Residence:
Unknown
Business:
Unknown
Location of homicide:
1503 Robertson Street
Day, date, hour committed:
6 P.M., Thurs. May 8th
By whom reported:
Sergeant William Kingman
To whom reported:
Sergeant Joseph J. Carter
Time reported:
6 P.M., Thurs. May 8th
If arrested, by whom:
Still At Large
Where arrested:
N/A
If escaped, in what manner:
Left the scene prior to our arrival
Witnesses:
Martha Cheri,
Henrietta Russell,
Corinne Edwards,
1503 Robertson Street,
all colored
Detailed Report
Sergeant William Kingman reports that at 6.00 o’clock this P.M. Thurs. May 8th a telephone message was sent to this station that noises of a disturbance had been heard at 1503 Roberston Street. I immediately, in the company of Sergeant Wlm. Kingman and Patrolman John Mayer, proceeded to the address and on reaching it discovered Carmelita Smith, a Negress prostitute, aged 17, dead in the single room of her crib. Furniture was disturbed and bloodstains were found on the pillow, mattress, sheets and floorboards. Blood spots were also visible on the victim’s drawers, which had been removed.
The victim was found naked except for a white vest. Knife wounds could be seen on the upper thighs of both legs, groin, and all about the abdomen and face. Also, a large gash across the neck, from the left jaw to right clavicle. No weapon was found at the scene.
Money totaling three dollars and forty cents
was found in a bedside cabinet, and underneath the mattress a gold crucifix.
Your office was notified at 6.35 P.M.; Dist. Attorney St Clair Adams and Coroner Joseph O’Hara at 6.45 and 6.50 P.M. Chief Detective Daniel Mourney and Patrolman Joseph Reggio came immediately on the scene and assisted in the case.
By order of the Coroner the Body was removed to the Morgue in the Fourth Precinct Patrol Wagon, in charge Driver George Brandt and Patrolman Francis D. Peyronnin. One lot of bed clothing, consisting of: sheet; pillows; and mattress; two towels; one pair of drawers; and one vest were turned over to the Coroner by order of the Dist. Attorney to be used as evidence.
Statement of the above mentioned witnesses, all Negress prostitutes with cribs in the building, are hereto attached.
Very respectfully,
Joseph J. Carter
Captain Comd’g Prec’t
A. J. Escude, Clerk
41
‘The Axeman’s gonna get us all paid, boy!’ shrieked Baby Dodds. It was just past eight and the band was taking a break in the Dixie Bell’s storage room. Baby chugged on a beer and smiled, and Lewis mumbled something in return. He was resting his head against a wall, trying to get some sleep, and his eyes were only half-open, not that Baby noticed any of this. Lewis never felt comfortable around Baby when he was drinking, not since an episode on the steamboat when Baby had gotten drunk on the job and started shouting and swearing in front of all the customers, and the whole band had nearly been thrown overboard by a posse of enraged whites. Baby was an excellent drummer, he had a trick of standing up and dancing whilst drumming, moving about the drum kit in a bewildering shimmy whilst keeping the beat going. The trick always brought cheers from the crowds and a rain of tips, but when it came to alcohol, Baby was an angry, impossible drunk.
