Standing at the Scratch Line (83 page)

He turned to the two women who were watching, trying to gauge his reaction. “I thank you for stayin’ by her side and tendin’ her. Why don’t you let me take over this evenin’ and you can go home and rest. Me and Sampson’ll work on keepin’ her fever down. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by tomorrow mo’nin’ and give her a look-see. The doctor ain’t prescribed no medicine, has he?”

“Doc Stephens don’t know nothin’ about women’s potions,” Wichita replied. “That’s why me and Ma Wrangel is tendin’ her. If Serena wants to live, she gon’ make it. She’s young and strong. My worry is that she don’t care whether she live or not. She’s embarrassed about facin’ the town folk. And mostly, she thinks because she been violated and humiliated you won’t take her back.”

“Then she ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. She my wife. Ain’t nothin’ gon’ change that. And don’t let nobody be foolish enough to say somethin’ about this!” King sat down in the chair that Ma Wrangel had vacated and pulled in closer to the bed. He wrung out another cold towel and softly pressed its coolness against Serena’s burning skin. He appeared to forget that Wichita and Ma Wrangel were in the room. Ma Wrangel brought him a stack of fresh towels and Wichita left him some system-cleansing herbs for tea, should Serena regain consciousness during the night. Just as they reached the doorway, King turned to them. “Did she say anythin’ about a baby, a baby that was nigh on to a year old?” The two women shook their heads and continued down the stairs.

The noise the logs made when King put them into the stove caused Serena to move fitfully as if she was just beneath the surface of consciousness. King moved his chair closer to the bed and took her hand in his. He looked down on her fevered face and watched as droplets of sweat made small shiny trails down the smoothness of her skin. She was twisting and turning on the bed as if she was seeking a way out of the prison of sleep. Ever so slowly her fitful movements ceased and she appeared to sink into a deep slumber.

King lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Holding her hand next to his cheek, he closed his eyes and said, “I been wrong. I’ve been holdin’ blame against you. I got to admit, I was deep hurt by the way you handled the letter and I’m still hurtin’! I ain’t ever gon’ give up lookin’ for that boy! If he’s alive, I’m gon’ find him!”

King exhaled and was silent for a moment before he began to speak. “I was ready to walk away from you, but seein’ that you was willin’ to sacrifice yo’self to save me, I got to stay. You paid yo’ debt in a higher court. Ain’t nothin’ more I can ask! I can’t promise it’ll be the same, but we got somethin’ worth savin’! Maybe we can get back where we used to be. Let this baby come on! This baby ain’t gon’ get between you and me! We got some big city lights to see and the money to take us there in style! Don’t give up on livin’!”

Serena made no movement to indicate recognition, nor was there any evidence of her attempting to break through the opaque barrier into consciousness. There was only the rise and fall of her chest and the sound of her regular breathing.

King awoke the next morning stiff and aching. He had fallen asleep leaning forward in his chair, resting his head and arms on Serena’s bed. The pendulum clock at the foot of the stair clanged out six o’clock. As he sat up, he noticed her hand was lying on his arm. He felt her forehead and it seemed considerably cooler, almost normal. He stood up slowly due to stiffness. There was a slight chill in the room. He dropped a couple of logs in the potbellied stove, stirred the smoldering embers with an iron poker, and then pumped a leather bellows until the logs caught flame. He picked up the bucket in which the ice had melted and carried it downstairs. The smell of coffee greeted him. Sampson and Lightning were already outside unloading the truck. King poured himself a cup of the hot black liquid and sipped it, feeling the heat of it burn the back of his throat.

When he returned upstairs, Serena turned her head and looked at him. He hurried to the bed and knelt beside her. She was still weak, but she gave him a tired smile.

“I was worried about you,” King admitted, taking her hand. “I was worried that maybe you wouldn’t fight to come back. Last night I did a lot of thinkin’ about everythin’! This baby you carryin’ ain’t gon’ get between us. This baby is comin’ because you sacrificed yo’self for me! This baby been paid for! Family ain’t only about blood. I was thinkin’ that I don’t like everythin’ I do. Ain’t no way I can expect to like everythin’ you do. I figure if’en you knew what the DuMonts was gon’ do, you’d have done different! Anyways, you saved my life, so let’s call it water under the bridge and go on. You’s my wife. You’s my family and that’s real important to me! This baby you carryin’ is part of that family! We goin’ through this here life together! Man and wife!”

Serena said nothing, but she smiled and gave his hand a faint squeeze. Then without warning she slipped back under the translucent cover of unconsciousness. Her breaths were long and even. She appeared to sleep. Her hand relaxed and lay quietly in King’s grasp like a half-opened flower.

Ma Wrangel came over at seven o’clock just before her breakfast rush and was delighted to see Serena’s improvement. She bathed and tended to Serena, clucking like an old mother hen. Then she rushed back to Wrangel House to check on the status of things in the kitchen.

Serena slept for the next two days with only intermittent moments of wakefulness. But on the third day she awoke and King saw that the spark in her eye had been rekindled. He knelt by her bedside and kissed her softly.

“You want anythin’?” he asked.

“I’m starving! What is there to eat?”

“What do you want?”

“I want some pancakes, grits and bacon, some oatmeal, a slice of ham and—”

King spread his hands. “Whoa! Whoa! Is you sure you can eat all this?”

Serena nodded her head emphatically.

“Alright, I’ll go over to Wrangel House and order it. You want it all at the same time, or you want staggered shifts?’

“I want it all now!”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute.”

As King walked out the door, she called out after him. “Bring me up one of those big dill pickles from the barrel downstairs when you come back!”

M
 O N D A Y,  
J
 U L Y   4,   1 9 2 1
   

The train’s whistle blared as it rushed through a small town, warning the inhabitants that the
Chicago Express
was passing through. The train continued hurtling down the track. The regular sound of its metal wheels passing over lengths of rail added a syncopated percussion to the other noises generated by the linked rail cars as their locomotive steamed along at nearly forty miles an hour.

Through the windows of the sleeping car, the sky was overcast with a trace of blue on the western horizon. Marco Volante stared out the windows and his mood matched the sky. The constant movement of the train caused the bandages on the wound in his side to seep with blood. He could not find a comfortable position, one in which his injury was not aggravated by the train’s movement. He knew that if he did not see a doctor soon, his life would be in jeopardy. Over the ten days in which he had been traveling northward from New Orleans, he had lost a lot of blood. The pain of sitting up was making him light-headed.

His journey to Chicago had been a march through hell. He could not count the number of ferries, barges, buses, and trains he had taken in his escape from New Orleans. There was no other word for it but escape and he was lucky to do it with his life. Unwillingly, his thoughts drifted back to the night that King Tremain had killed Corlis Mack. One image rose out of the turmoil and dominated the rest. It was the flicker of a knife blade created by distant streetlights against the shadows of nightfall.

After Volante had driven away from the sight of Bradley’s crushed body lying under the wheel of the beer wagon, he finally found his way back to his hotel, a reputable but out-of-the-way establishment. The hotel was located on a narrow street far from the Vieux Carré and its attendant nightlife. Volante parked around the corner from the hotel and studied the street for the signs of the sheriff’s men. Despite the lateness of the hour, there was still some pedestrian traffic, and an occasional vehicle would pass every so often. He got out of the car and slipped into the alley that ran behind the hotel. He entered the establishment through its back entrance and climbed the stairs to his room without seeing anyone except a Negro porter who was asleep by the back door.

With trepidation Volante tiptoed down the hall to his room. His hand was on his derringer. The hallway was well lit by electric bulbs shining from regularly spaced sconces. He reached his room without incident, but he noticed that the door was ajar. Immediately he knew something was wrong. Both Sal and Beppo were veterans; neither man would leave a hotel door open in enemy territory. Volante considered leaving without going into the room, but he couldn’t get out of New Orleans without money. He also needed to find out what had happened to Beppo and Sal. He pushed in the door and stepped into the darkened room. He closed the door behind him and switched on the overhead light. He crept to the end of the narrow, five-foot hallway and peeked into the room. Tables and chairs were overturned. Lamps lay broken on the floor. It looked as if the room had been used to stage a life-and-death struggle.

Beppo was lying on his back by the couch, with a wire wound tightly around his neck. His eyes were still open in a glassy-eyed stare of surprise. Volante went over to him, knelt down, and closed Beppo’s eyes. Then he went to find his other subordinate. He found Sal in the bathroom tub, lying in his own blood. His throat had been slit. Volante’s heart began to pound. Both his soldiers had been killed. The sheriff’s plan seemed to be moving along despite the fact that its deviser was dead and no longer concerned with the outcome. He forced himself to organize his thoughts. He needed money and he needed guns if he was to get out of New Orleans alive.

The money was still where it had been stashed, under the rug beneath the couch. There was just over twenty thousand dollars, most of it to be used as bribe money for port officials and law enforcement types. Volante quickly stuffed the bills into a money belt, which he slipped around his waist beneath his shirt. When he returned to Chicago, he wanted to return with that money in hand. He wanted to show some small recompense to offset his failure to attain the desired objectives. His whole mission had been disrupted by factors beyond his control, but in his organization, excuses only paved the way to hell.

He realized that it was only a matter of time before whoever killed Beppo and Sal returned to check whether he had gone back to the hotel. He stooped down to check Beppo’s body for his .357, but it was gone. He had a hunch that Sal’s was taken as well. It was clear that his pursuers planned to kill him with either Sal or Beppo’s gun. He went to the drawer and was emptying a box of .45 shells into his pocket when he heard the door squeak open.

The overhead light was on. There was no place to hide. Volante ducked behind the dresser bureau and waited. He heard footsteps walk to the end of the hallway. The sweat began to run down his face. He didn’t even pull his derringer. It was useless except at close range. Volante tried to slow down his breathing so as not to give his presence away. A voice called out, “Signore Volante? Signore Volante, it’s me, Leo Pagnozzi. Are you here? My Uncle Joe Petino told me to help you!”

Volante breathed a sigh of relief and stood up. “A hell of a good time to show up, Leo. I need some help! It looks like the sheriff’s boys hit us hard. I need some help getting out of New Orleans back to Chicago.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Leo answered with a smile. He was a medium-sized, dark-haired man in his early twenties. His dominant feature was hair. His hairline was close to his eyebrows, which appeared as one long row of hair above his eyes. It did not matter how many times he shaved; he always had a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.

Volante noticed thick, coarse dark hair on Leo’s hands as he leaned casually against the wall. He appeared to show no surprise or sorrow at seeing Beppo’s body lying on the floor. Leo’s apparent lack of emotion disturbed Volante. “Let me get a few things,” Volante said as he began to pack a small travel bag. Behind the top cover of the bag, he discarded the spent shell from his derringer and replaced it with a new one. “I’m ready,” he said.