“Are you sure that it’s safe for you to go alone tonight, Boss?” Sal Fiore asked as Marco Volante was straightening his clothes in front of the mirror. “These southern country fools have killed about twenty of our people so far. What makes you think you can trust them?”
Marco turned and looked at Sal. Fiore was a good man and someone you wanted on your side in a fight, but he was not a thinking man. It was apparent from the way he was dressed. Fiore was wearing a dark wool pinstriped suit with a black shirt and white tie. His shoes were two-tone and he had at least three rings on the fingers of each hand. In New Orleans he looked exactly like what he was: a northern gangster. He made no effort to blend in at all.
“A prolonged war isn’t good for business,” Marco said, adjusting his tie. “Everybody loses money. We’re here to negotiate a deal so that business can continue. The deal is more valuable to them than killing me. As long as I don’t step on someone’s toes, I don’t have a thing to worry about.” Marco nodded his head at his image in the mirror. The cream-colored suit looked good on him.
Beppo Lucca walked into the room. “The car’s downstairs waiting for you, Boss,” he announced. Beppo was a stocky, muscular man with prematurely gray hair. He was there for muscle. He was good for the close in silent work, excellent with the knife and the garrote. “I should ride with the driver, Boss,” Beppo urged, his craggy features shaping a plaintive look.
“He said, ‘Come alone,’ guys. Otherwise, I would keep you by my side. If they intend to do me, I don’t think the presence of two soldiers would stop them. I’ve got to move forward with courage. I can’t let these people think that we’re afraid of them. Plus, the deal I’ve been authorized to put on the table will make them rich.”
“Why should we give these dogs anything?” Sal protested. “We should rub ’em out! Let them feel the power of the Black Hand.”
Marco chuckled. “Your way means loss of business and more loss of life on our side. If we wait a year, let them enjoy the money we give them and let them relax. Then their guard will be down. Then we send somebody down to hit everyone in the top two layers of their organization! Then we’ll have what we want and it won’t be nearly as costly as a protracted war. It’s another version of the Trojan horse.”
“Whatever you say, Boss,” Sal said, shrugging his shoulders. “I still think at least one of us ought to go with you.”
“I have to say no, Sally,” Marco said, checking his interior coat pockets for a pen. He found what he was looking for and closed his jacket. “But I really like it that you guys are concerned about my welfare.”
“You got heat?” Beppo asked, offering his .38 revolver.
“That’s too big. They’d find that. I have my little two-shot derringer for just in case. If you get a chance, try to find Leo Pagnozzi. He’s the Don’s contact man in New Orleans. We should have heard from him by now. Okay, guys, wish me luck. If things go wrong and we get separated, meet me tomorrow night at that place we agreed upon by those north levees. I’m ready to go.” Marco headed out the door for the stairs. Beppo and Sal followed him to the car, which came to pick him up.
Beppo went around to the driver’s side and asked the Negro driver, “Where are you taking my boss, in case we need to get in touch with him?”
The driver said, “Sorry, suh, but I ain’t allowed to tell nothin’!”
Beppo reached through the window, grabbed the driver by the front of his gray jacket, and pulled him partway out of the car. “I asked you a question, jungle bunny, and I want an answer!”
“I’s just the driver,” wailed the victim. “I don’t know nothin’!”
“Let go of him, Beppo!” Marco ordered. “He’s just doing his job. I’ll see you boys later tonight.”
As the car pulled away from the hotel, the driver tipped his hat to Marco. “I’s much obliged, suh, for you pullin’ him off’en me. He coulda beat me, but I wasn’t gon’ tell him nothin’.” The driver put his thumb under the lapel of his gray jacket and said proudly, “I’s a gray jacket! I works for Sheriff Mack.”
Marco’s mind was far away, but he found it more comfortable to listen to the driver’s babble, it better than staring out at the incomprehensible nightlife of the New Orleans streets, so he asked, “How did you get a job working for the sheriff?”
“Name’s Bradley O’Malley, suh, and I is somewhat famous around these parts ’cause I done helped the sheriff catch one of the toughest and meanest Negroes that ever growed up in these here United States. After that, Sheriff Mack, he gave me a job as his driver.” Bradley stopped the car to let a parade of musicians and dancers lead a coffin down a side street. Through the car window Marco saw several trombones and trumpets and a tuba among the musicians, while other marchers carried torches. The blaring music played by the band was slow, rocking blues and everyone in the procession kept step with the music.
“What’s that?” Marco asked, pointing at the disappearing parade.
“It’s a funeral procession with second-liners,” Bradley answered as he put the car into gear and continued through the intersection.
“They have funerals at night with music like that?”
“They has them whenever they can get the band that they want. Shoot, some bands work twenty-four hours on the weekend. Peoples in New Orleans wants to die in style. You can’t do that without a good band.”
“Interesting,” Marco commented, sitting back in the seat. “You were telling how you helped catch this mean Negro?” he asked just to keep the conversation going.
“Well, suh, I seed him tryin’ to hide behind some school chil’ren and I let out the alarm. The policemens surrounded the school and lo and behold, he gave up quiet as a kitten.”
“Doesn’t sound so tough and mean to me,” Marco said mildly.
“Ohh, he was tough alright, and mean too! He killed both colored and white like he was butcherin’ animals! He didn’t care. Everybody was scared of King Tremain ’ceptin’ me. I stood right up to him every time he brace me, I did!”
Suddenly Marco was very attentive. The name King Tremain reverberated in his mind like the bells of St. Mary’s at Sunday noon. He was very careful not to let his interest enter his voice as he asked, “King Tremain? Is that a common name? Is he from around here?”
“Yes, suh, he from right outside of New Orleans. He comes from one them big swamp-nigger families that lives out on the bayous. As far as I know, ain’t no other King Tremain.”
“What did the sheriff do with him after he was arrested?”
“Oh, the sheriff had somethin’ special in mind for him. He disappeared after that.” Bradley dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard from somebody who ought to know that King Tremain got burned up in the Lafayette Social Club fire. Part of his burnt body was found still chained to the wall in the basement by them rescue teams.”
Marco Volante sat back in the seat, lost in thought. He felt a little disappointed that he hadn’t had a hand in King’s demise, but he was also happy to hear that King had met an unpleasant end. If he could be sure it was the same man, he might be able to free himself from the distorted black faces and bloody hands that frequented his dreams. “Why was the sheriff so interested in this man?” he asked.
Bradley dropped his voice again. “From what I hear, he the one that shot the sheriff’s leg off. Some people say he did it from near to three hundred yards away. Ain’t nobody doubt that King Tremain could shoot!”
Marco sat back in his seat again. Don Vitorio Minetti was killed from about that distance. It was too great a coincidence. It had to be the same man who was in New York. Marco felt a rush of disappointment. He would never vindicate himself. It had been a dream, a fantasy, that one day he would be able to return to New York with Tremain in chains and clear his name.
“We’s here, suh,” Bradley announced as he steered the car through the gate of a tall stucco fence. A narrow gravel and dirt road led up to an old two-story antebellum mansion that had a broad lighted porch that ran the width of the house.
“Where are we?” Marco asked as he got out. There were people in evening clothes talking and drinking on the porch, and every window of the mansion was lit from the first floor to the gabled rooms of the attic.
“We’s at Sheriff Mack’s country estate. This place is where he throw his parties and where he come for to play pinochle. Tonight’s a pinochle night. Ain’t but eight guests total. I hopes you plays pinochle.”
“I play,” Marco answered, still looking around. He didn’t see any guards or men with guns and there were women on the porch. Perhaps Corlis was on the up-and-up. Marco turned to Bradley. “Are you supposed to drive me home?”
Bradley gave him a big smile. “Yes, suh. The sheriff he told me to drive you both ways.”
Marco exhaled and said, “I’ll see you later then.” He walked up the stairs to the house. He felt a bit more comfortable; they wouldn’t leave an assassination attempt in Bradley’s hands. He presented his invitation card at the door to a colored man dressed in gray livery.
“I’s obliged to ask you to wait here, suh.” The man turned and went down the hall to a room and knocked on a door.
Marco’s heart had begun to sink. The women on the porch were garishly dressed and appeared to be either prostitutes or women who were paid to attend parties to befriend the guests. It was Marco’s experience that the presence of wives and ladies of character dramatically reduced the possibility of foul play.
“Mr. Volante?”
Marco turned to stare at a bulky, red-faced, balding man. He stood with the aid of a crutch and had one empty pants leg folded up just above the knee. “Sheriff Mack?” Marco asked as he stepped forward with his hand outstretched.
“You can call me Corlis. Why don’t you come on back to my office and we can have some privacy to talk?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Marco said with a smile as he followed Corlis’s thumping gait back to a small room off the hall. The room was cozy. There was a desk with a large leather chair behind it and two wing chairs in front. The walls were lined with photos of men in police uniforms. Corlis sat down behind the desk and gestured to Marco to take one of the wing chairs.
A colored waiter appeared at the door. He was dressed in the same gray livery as the man guarding the front door. “You wants somethin’, suh?” he asked.
“Yes, Theodore, I’ll think we’ll have a bit of drop.” Corlis turned to Marco. “Do you like single-malt bourbons? I have the genuine article and it’s a sipping delight.”
“I’m open,” answered Marco.
“Bring the bottle, Theodore, and two sipping glasses.” The waiter bowed and closed the door. “What do you think of New Orleans, Mr. Volante?”
“It’s a lot different than either New York or Chicago, but I really haven’t been here long enough to see much of it.”
“Then how do you know it’s so different?”
“I saw a funeral tonight with a band playing ragtime. You’d never see that up north.”
Corlis smiled. “We do generate our share of funerals, some by natural causes, some assisted, but everyone wants good music when they die. Do you like music, Mr. Volante?”
“I like some. I’ve never really given a lot of attention to it.”
“Around here, it’s important to pick your music before you die. Otherwise someone does it for you.”
Marco smiled and said, “Sheriff Mack, I’ve got such a good deal for you that I don’t believe we need to talk about people dying. Let me lay out the details. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”
The waiter returned with a tray holding the bottle and two glasses. He set the tray down and departed, closing the door behind him.
“Let’s put our cards on the table, Mr. Volante. Why should I trust you? We had a meeting scheduled with your people before your men bombed the Lafayette Social Club. Your men killed some people who were very important to me. I have a hard time overlooking that.” Corlis poured the glasses to the rim and offered one to Marco.
Marco set his glass down without drinking. He had listened to the sheriff’s slow southern drawl and heard the anger beneath it. Marco said slowly, “Sheriff Mack, our men had nothing to do with that incident. Our men are disciplined. They follow orders. There’s a penalty associated with not following orders and it generally means loss of life. They had no authorization to take such actions, so it wouldn’t and couldn’t have been them.”
“So you say,” Corlis said with a nod of his head. “Try the bourbon. It’s an insult down here to refuse to drink with the man you’ve come to make a deal with.”
Marco picked up his glass and drank half of it. “The reason I am here is to negotiate a deal that is beneficial to both of us.”
“You’re here because we’ve cut your shipment line. You’re here because I killed every one of your men that I could find. That’s why you’re here. You’re here to make a deal for six months. Then you’ll try to kill me. I know all about your tactics, Mr. Volante.”
“If you really feel that about my mission, why did you agree to meet me?”
“I didn’t agree to meet you! I told your superiors that I would kill the man sent to bring me a deal. Now I want to make it clear to them that there is no negotiating after a betrayal. There is no deal! This is my territory and I run it by myself! I brought you out here because I needed to send your superiors a message,” Corlis said, pouring himself another drink.
“What is it? You want me to carry it back?” Marco asked. He drank the rest of his bourbon.
Corlis leaned over and poured him another full glass. “You’ll carry it back alright, but it won’t matter if you know it or not. Your body will tell the full story.”
Marco’s pulse began to sound like slow drums in his temples. He wondered whether he should try to shoot Corlis with his derringer and make his escape.
As if in answer to Marco’s thought, Corlis lifted a big .44 magnum revolver from his lap and said, “Don’t think about trying anything. You’re safe tonight. I don’t go back on my agreements. You’ll have safe passage back to the hotel as I agreed, but after that you’re on your own. We’ll see how good your men really are, won’t we? Another drink?”
“I don’t need another one yet,” Marco answered in a toneless voice. “Why are you doing this? We could make money together. We could be partners!”