City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (novels to read .txt) 📗

distorted cross I had found at the crime scene where Carrie was laid out.

“What about this?”

Frenchy studied it, and I studied Frenchy.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, cher. But it looks scary as hell.”

Fifteen

After a few minutes, I pulled out and started back toward downtown. This time the road was blocked by a passenger train slowly entering the tracks into Union Station. Del Webb was right—we did need an underpass at Central. In my rearview mirror, I saw Frenchy’s dark Chevy come out of the junkyard and turn south. I decided to follow him and pulled a U-turn.

This would be tricky on a two-lane road, so I gave him plenty of distance. A hay truck helpfully pulled in front of me, offering concealment. The South Mountains loomed blue-brown ahead of us as we left the city, passing farmhouses and pastures, then dipped down into the dry Salt River, a quarry to the left with water in an excavated portion. I wondered how deep that hole went and what might be in it: bodies, cars. Frenchy wasn’t searching for an innocent Negro to frame, at least not now.

At Broadway, Frenchy turned right. So did the hay truck. My luck held as I spun the steering wheel and followed on the dirt road. I had a gut feeling where he was going.

Sure enough, Frenchy pulled into Kemper Marley’s property. The hay truck continued on, and I made a snap decision to pull into a stand of cottonwoods about thirty feet away. I got out, quietly closed the door, and went into a grove of grapefruit trees on the west side of the Marley house. It was just in time to hear Kemper yelling.

“What kind of fool are you, Navarre? You stupid son of a bitch!”

Frenchy said something I couldn’t make out. Then his blood was up and his voice louder. “I don’t let any man talk to me that way!”

I moved closer in a crouch and watched. The two were standing beside Navarre’s car. Marley had confronted him before he even got up the path to the house.

“I’ll talk to you however I want, Frenchy. I own your sorry ass.”

Frenchy was insistent. “You said you wanted to send a message to that kike! What better message than taking out one of his bagmen?”

“I didn’t tell you to kill anybody,” Marley said. “This only brings more trouble. I have to work with Chicago, not fight them. I need leverage against them, not a war, you damned idiot.”

I crouched a little lower. There it was: Frenchy had cut Zoogie Boogie’s throat. My snitch would have been compliant around a member of the Hat Squad. Not only that, but trusting a man he was collecting money for, not knowing what was coming. And, with a razor, Navarre would make it appear as if the killer was colored.

“Gene Hammons was there,” Frenchy said.

“What the hell? Why?”

“Zoogie Boogie was Hammons’s stool pigeon back in the day, before he went to prison. Muldoon called him down. There was nothing I could do to stop it without it looking suspicious.”

“What did Hammons say?”

“He’s a smart cop. Dangerous smart. Found the place I slit Zoogie’s throat and the drag marks where I brought the body. And he found a money belt with cash in it. Gave it to Muldoon as evidence.”

Marley cursed.

“Hell, I didn’t know he had that on him,” Navarre protested.

If only Marley knew that Frenchy was playing both sides. Zoogie Boogie told me Navarre was Gus Greenbaum’s bagman. Now here he was, acting as Marley’s lieutenant.

Marley said, “What about his brother? Was he there, too?”

“No, Don’s probably hitting the gonger in Chinatown. You don’t have to worry about him. This case was just me and Turk Muldoon and some uniforms. Captain wanted two detectives on the call. It’s the first homicide of the year.”

“Except for that girl, Carrie.”

My hands clenched into fists.

“What’s going on with that?”

Frenchy said, “Deep six. The department won’t even acknowledge it.”

“I want to know if that changes, got it? Last thing I need is for Gene Hammons to start nosing around in her killing. And meanwhile, Muldoon has that money you missed on the ex-con. He’ll be suspicious.”

“I know,” Navarre said. “I went through Zoogie’s pockets. I wanted to make it look like a robbery. But the junkyard owner came around, don’t ask me why at that hour. This was when I was still talking to Zoogie. We hid and kept quiet. Finally, the owner split and I turned Zoogie around and used the razor. How could I know he was wearing a damned money belt?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“Easy. Say it was a robbery. Muldoon won’t talk to him, tell him about the cash. So it looks like a robbery. Then you could tell Greenbaum his men might not be safe in Niggertown without your protection, see? It would send a strong message. But you’d be the man on top, willing to help. Chicago would notice, too. I thought it through. This will still work for you.”

“Are you insane, Navarre, or only a jughead? You ‘thought it through’ about as much as a gelding ‘thinks through’ his nuts before they’re cut off. Gus Greenbaum would kill your ass without a second thought, cop or not. Same with me. His people carry Tommy guns, not razors. He’d see through any explanation and retaliate if I even mentioned this to him. You’d better pray you can find a jigaboo you can blame it on and make it real public.”

“All right, all right. I’ll give one a tumble. It won’t be hard.”

“And never say a word about the truth of this—ever! Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you?” This was a roar.

“Yes, Kemper. I’ve got it.”

“You’re no good to me doing foolish things. I have other flatfoots I can use. You’re not my enforcer. I have muscle when and where I need it.” I heard him spit. “You’re nothing special, Navarre. You’ll forfeit a month’s pay from me because of this stunt.”

“Damn, I need that money,” Frenchy