The Axman of New Orleans Page 6

  "Do you remember any of the words either of them used, specific Sicilian or Italian words?"

  Italian and Sicilian are not the same language, according to my wife. They are, however, close enough so that Sicilians can understand mainland Italians and vice versa, but they are different languages, used by different people with different cultures. Maria, like her parents, had no use for mainland Italians.

  Deputy Sheriff Corcoran had a look of concentration on his face. After nearly a minute, he said, "I do remember one thing they was talking about."

  "What's that?"

  "Talking about some Negro. They said the words backwards like they always do, calling him a man Negro instead of a Negro man. But I didn't know who they were talking about because there weren't no Negroes in the store."

  I didn't bother pointing out to Deputy Corcoran that in Sicilian, as in other Romance languages-French, Spanish, Portuguese-the adjective follows the noun, something the nuns at Jesuit beat into me with rulers as they forced me to study Latin syntax.

  Leaning forward in my chair, I rested my elbows on my knees and peered into the deputy's flat face. "Think carefully, Mr. Corcoran. Could they have been saying Manu Nero?"

  He shook his head.

  "Maybe Manu Negro?" I suggested.

  Corcoran snapped his fingers. "That's it, Man-oo Nee-gro. Like I said, talking about some Negro man, but there weren't no Negroes around."

  I stood up and shook his hand. "I appreciate your help."

  He leaned back into the sofa. "If you catch them dagos, you think I'll have to testify against them?"

  "I doubt it," I said.

  I stepped outside and put on my hat.

  Manu Nero was the proper Sicilian pronunciation, but because Spain had ruled Sicily for more than 300 years, many Spanish words had found their way into the Sicilian language. Some words and phrases had been bastardized. Manu Negro was a combination of Sicilian and Spanish. It meant Black Hand. It meant trouble.

  CHAPTER 8

  FITZGERALD FOILS KIDNAP PLOT

  Son Of Former Chief Detective Catches Wagonload Of Kidnappers, Kills Two In Wild Gunfight.

  -The Daily Picayune

  APRIL 3, 1914

  10:15 P.M.

  Emile Denoux counted himself long overdue for a drink by the time he stepped into the Red Stag, a two-story saloon and brothel on Bienville Street. It had been a long day at the newspaper. The saloon was crowded, and Emile recognized the faces of several policemen. Some of them hadn't even bothered to change out of their uniforms before they started imbibing.

  Standing at the far end of the bar, dressed in plain clothes, was Colin Fitzgerald.

  "I hear double congratulations are in order," Emile said as he slid onto the stool next to Fitzgerald.

  "Thank you," the policeman said.

  "Did you read my article today about you saving that boy's life? I made you out to be the second coming of Achilles."

  "I glanced at it."

  "And I hear you now have a son."

  Fitzgerald nodded. A half-full beer sat in front of him.

  "When was he born?"

  "Four days ago."

  Emile clapped Fitzgerald on the back. "Congratulations. Let me buy your next beer." Then he noticed Fitzgerald was standing apart from the other policemen, and he didn't seem as jovial as the occasion called for, nor as drunk. "What's wrong?"

  Fitzgerald shrugged. "My wife deserves the credit for Colin Junior."

  "Then I'll buy her a beer," Emile said. Although he meant it as a joke, he hoped it came out that way. The last thing he wanted to do was incur the wrath of his friend's fiery Irish temper. "No disrespect intended," he added.

  Fitzgerald gave a snort that was almost a laugh, which was pretty good for him. "None taken," he said. Then he smacked Emile on the shoulder.

  Unbidden, the barman set a glass of Dewar's in front of Emile. He took a strong sip. When he finished, he traced a finger along his lips, then licked the remnants of the scotch whisky from his fingertip.

  "What about yesterday?" Emile said. "Certainly you can take credit for that."

  Fitzgerald shook his head. "That was more luck than anything. Your article today was only about half right." After a sip of beer, he said, "For you, that's an improvement." Then he laughed an actual honest-to-God laugh.

  "How did you know the kidnappers were going to head toward Canal Street?"

  "I didn't. It just seemed like the least obvious path."

  "If you hadn't been there, they would have gotten away."

  Fitzgerald shrugged. "Maybe."

  "Maybe hell. I heard everyone else was looking for the wagon on Esplanade. You killed two and captured two. That was great work."

  "Not really," Fitzgerald said. "Dead men can't talk."

  "The two you arrested can."

  "I doubt they know much," Fitzgerald said. "One of the men I shot was the leader. The others were just hired guns. With him dead, we'll probably never know who put them up to it."

  "But you saved that boy's life."

  Fitzgerald nodded and drained his beer.

  Emile signaled the barman for another round. Then he pointed to the knot of policemen. "You here with them?"

  "Sort of," Fitzgerald said.

  As Emile waited for his drink, he watched the other policemen. One of them, a young blond-haired man with a waxed handlebar mustache, pointed toward the top of the stairs, where two primped and powdered prostitutes clung to the banister, staring down at the policemen and giggling. Several of the young man's friends laughed and jabbed their elbows into him as they nodded up the stairs, evidently encouraging him to pay one of the ladies a visit.

  "They dragged me out with them," Fitzgerald said. "Then they pretty much abandoned me. I don't think I'm all that much fun."

  "Why not?" Emile said, his eyes lingering on the two women at the top of the stairs. "A young man like you should be having all the fun he can."

  The barman set down their drinks.

  "You talk like you're a grandfather already," Fitzgerald said as he hefted his foaming mug. "Remember, you're only five years older than me."

  Emile winked at him. "But I lived a lot in those five years."

  After a sip of beer, Fitzgerald said, "To be honest, I'd rather be home with Maria and the baby, but her mother is staying with us. Don't get me wrong, I love Mrs. Palmisano, but when those two get together they start speaking Sicilian so fast I can only understand half of what they're saying."

  "So you're out drinking with the boys."

  Fitzgerald inclined his head toward the distant group of colleagues. "If you can call it that."

  Emile took a long swallow of scotch, savoring the charred wood and peat undertones. "Frankly, I'm glad you shot those two kidnappers. It gave me something to write about. Things have been slow."

  "I'm glad I could help."

  "You'll make detective soon."

  "Not a chance."

  Emile turned to him. "Why not?"

  "My father made a lot of enemies."

  "I would have expected nothing less from a man in his position," Emile said.

  "I'm not talking about the people he put in jail," Fitzgerald said. "I'm talking about the people he worked for."

  "How?"

  "He was appointed by Superintendent Hennessy, and Hennessy was appointed by Mayor Shakspeare."

  "The man who tried to reform City Hall."

  Fitzgerald nodded. "So the three of them-my dad, the superintendent, and the mayor-started arresting city officials who broke the law. The Regular Democrats hated them for it."

  "I bet they did," Emile said. Then after a sip of whisky, he asked, "So is it true?"

  "Is what true?"

  Emile lowered his voice and hunched his shoulders. "My father always said that it wasn't the Italians who killed Chief Hennessy ... that it was the men at the Choctaw Club, or someone working for them."

  "My father always believed the same thing," Fitzgerald said. "He just couldn't prove
it."

  "So those Italians they lynched in Congo Square?"

  "Had nothing to do with it."

  "How did your father stay the chief of detectives for so long after Chief Hennessy was killed?"

  "He knew everybody's dirty secrets," Fitzgerald said. "And where all the bodies were buried."

  "And you still managed to get a job with the police?"

  Fitzgerald shrugged. "No matter how much the Regular Democrats hated my father, he died a hero, so how would it look if the department refused to hire one of its own orphans?" He downed a slug of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "But I'll be a patrolman forever."

  Emile thought of his own father, who had not died a hero's death, but who had nevertheless been a hero to his son. Emile could not remember a time when he did not want to be a reporter like his father. The memories made his eyes burn and raised a lump in his throat that he tried to quell with whisky.

  Henri Denoux had spent his entire career exposing the common corruption of the bureaucrats at City Hall and trying to uncover the more insidious venality of those above them, the men whose backsides burnished the real seats of power, the members of the Choctaw Club.

  The stone and iron edifice on Saint Charles Avenue known as the Choctaw Club was the most exclusive club in the city and the official headquarters of the Regular Democrats, the city's dominant political party. The Choctaw Club also served as the unofficial headquarters of the elite within the elite, the all-powerful political machine known as the Ring.

  After the whisky melted the lump in Emile's throat, he said, "The Ring put my father's newspaper out of business and left him to die a broken man."

  Fitzgerald was quiet for a moment. Then he held up his mug. "To both our fathers. To hell with the Ring."

  Emile raised his glass and clinked it against Colin's mug. "To our fathers and to hell with the Ring." Then he washed down another lump with a burning swig of whisky.

  CHAPTER 9

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1919

  7:00 A.M.

  When I got back to the Pepitone house after interviewing Deputy Corcoran, I saw a black carriage drawn up near the porch. On the lacquered sides, written in scripted gold letters, were the words: ORLEANS PARISH CORONER, DR. LOUIS DELACHAISE. A single mule stood hitched to the carriage. The coroner had yet to buy a motorcar. In his line of work, there was no need for haste.

  Two Negro attendants were wrestling a stretcher bearing Mr. Pepitone's body out the front door. The three uniformed policemen who had been smoking on the porch when I left for the Corcoran house were still there. The two older cops held their hats in their hands as the body passed. The rookie kept his garrison cap on his head.

  Standing on the street in front of the house, I took off my Filson and waited while the two attendants loaded the body into the back of the carriage. The crowd of Italians onlookers stood in respectful silence.

  As the carriage rolled away, I put on my hat and stepped onto the porch. The two policemen who had doffed their caps were putting them back on. The third one, the rookie, was pulling a cigarette from his pocket. As I passed him, I reached out and knocked off his hat.

  "Hey, what's the big idea!" he said.

  I turned back to face him. "Next time take off your hat."

  He squared up to me. "Why, I ought to knock your-"

  "What the Sam Hell is going on here?" Superintendent Thompson boomed from the doorway.

  "The lad lost his hat," said one of the veteran cops, a ruddy-faced man with a thick Irish brogue. "The detective was just telling him to be more careful because these nice hats you give us cost the department a lot of money."

  The superintendent eyed the four of us as if we were naughty children. Finally, he snorted once through his waxed mustache and stormed off the porch toward his waiting motorcar.

  The rookie gave me a bit of the evil eye, then picked up his hat off the floor. The ruddy-faced patrolman winked at me and gave the rookie a hard elbow in the ribs.

  I stepped into the house and passed the chief of detectives on his way out. "Wrap it up, Fitzgerald, and get your report to me as quick as you can," he said.

  "Yes, sir," I said to his back.

  In the first bedroom, Sid Hirsch was packing away his equipment. "Get what you needed, Sid?" I asked.

  He was kneeling on the floor trying to stuff a flash reflector the size of a soup bowl into his bulging case. "Mostly," he grumbled. "But I wish Captain Campo would have left the body here for another fifteen minutes so I could have gotten more close-up exposures of the wounds." He looked over his shoulder at me. "I'm putting together a catalogue of blunt force and cutting trauma for presentation at the International Bertillon Society meeting next spring in Paris."

  "Gee, that's too bad," I said, although my sarcasm seemed to escape him. "Where's the wife?"

  "Second bedroom, with the kids."

  Then a familiar voice called out from the back of the house, "Colin." I looked down the hallway and saw Emile Denoux standing at the open back door. He waved as he took off his hat and wiped his feet before stepping into the kitchen. I limped down the hall, the weather still playing hell with my bad leg. As I passed the door to the second bedroom I heard children crying.

  In the kitchen, I asked Emile, "Did you climb the back fence?"

  "I'm too old for climbing, but I did find a couple of loose boards."

  "Did Thompson see you?"

  He shook his head. "Knowing as I do that the better part of valor is discretion, I waited until the superintendent left."

  Although Emile and I had been friends for several years, the last time I had seen him was in April. That meeting turned heated, and since then our friendship had been strained. "Haven't seen your byline in a while," I said.

  "I told you I was through with ... this story."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "Because I heard something," he said.

  "Heard what?"

  He didn't answer right away and I took the opportunity to give him a once-over. He looked thin, almost haggard, with skin even paler than normal and sunken cheeks. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

  "Okay, I guess." He patted his stomach. "But I still haven't gained back the weight I lost in the hospital."

  "Maybe you're not drinking enough."

  He smiled.

  "So what is this thing you heard?" I asked.

  "That two Italian men were here yesterday arguing with Mr. Pepitone."

  "Where did you hear that?" I said, trying to hide my surprise.

  "So it's true then?"

  "I didn't say that."

  Emile grinned. "Oh, yes, you did, my friend."

  I jabbed my finger at him. "You print that and I'll ..."

  "You'll what?" he said. "Knock me on my derriere?"

  "Or worse."

  "That's not all I found out," Emile said.

  I shook my head and sighed. "What else?"

  "A connection between what happened here today and something that happened ... a long time ago."

  "What kind of connection? What happened a long-"

  A door behind me opened. I turned and saw Mrs. Pepitone step out of the children's bedroom. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were stained with tears. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "How long before ... the children are hungry. I need to feed them."

  I cleared my throat. "We're just about finished, signura."

  She nodded and turned to go back into the bedroom.

  "Mrs. Pepitone?"

  She looked at me.

  "Tell me about the two men who were here yesterday arguing with your husband."

  "There was no one here."

  "What were they arguing about?"

  "My husband wasn't arguing with-"

  "Who were they?" I said.

  She shook her head.

  "Were they Manu Nero?"

  Her eyes widened in fear. "Nu sacciu di chi cosa stai parrannu." I don't know what you're talking about. Then she hurried back into her children's bedroom and
shut the door.

  ***

  "She's lying," Emile said.

  We stood in the grocery at the front of the house.

  "Maybe she has a good reason," I said.

  "What was that you said to her that scared her so much? Man-oo ... Man-oo something."

  "You first," I said. "Who told you about the two men?"

  He looked wary. "Then you'll tell me what you said to her?"

  I nodded.

  "When I first got here," Emile said, "I peeked through the window and saw your superintendent bumbling around inside the house, and given his unreasonable attitude toward me, I knew he would not let me near the crime scene. So I started canvassing the neighborhood, my thought being that I would come back once the superintendent had vacated the premises. As it happened, during my canvass of the neighborhood, I discovered a young Creole woman, a newlywed, whose husband works at the Jax Brewery. She told me she came to the grocery yesterday to buy a bag of dry beans, but when she got to the door, she heard raised voices inside the store. She peeked in and saw two men arguing with Mr. Pepitone. They were speaking Italian. She didn't understand them, but their tone scared her, so she left."

  "Did she describe them?"

  "One tall, one short."

  "Is that the connection you were talking about?" I asked. "You think the tall one is the same man you saw at the Maggio funeral, and later ... with Obitz and Dantonio?"

  "I would bet money on it."

  "You're a degenerate gambler," I said. "You'd bet money on anything."

  "I'm not a degenerate," Emile said. "I'm French."

  "When you were in the hospital, you told me you were finished writing about the Axman. Now you're doing a neighborhood canvass?"

  "Only to avoid the superintendent."

  "You could have ducked into a bar until he was gone."

  "At six o'clock in the morning?"

  "Wouldn't be your first time," I said. "There's more to this than you're telling me."

  "Do you want to talk to her?"

  "Who?"

  "The Creole woman?"

  "Of course I want to talk to her," I said. "Tell me where she lives."

  "You can't say you got her address from me."

  "I won't."

  "And knock on a few doors on either side of her house to make it look as if-"