So It Began

Prologue

The Little Louisiana Pageant, Whitfield Centre, Baton Rouge

Timmy Donald waited to be introduced; he wasn’t nervous. Timmy was a round-faced cherub, kiss-curled and confident. A tiny robot programmed to perform, and at five, already a veteran.

The MC gave him a big build-up. ‘From East Baton Rouge, a homeboy paying his tribute to one of the greatest entertainers of all time … Timmy Donald!’

The red velvet curtain parted, leaving Charlie Chaplin in the spotlight – lost, unsure and vulnerable. Timmy played it to a T, cocking his head to one side, leaning both hands on his stick. The face of a comic genius gazed out of the golden light. A single note gave him his key, and the spot followed the diminutive performer through a show of stagecraft beyond his years.

A piano track, played without finesse, tinkled in the background. Timmy brought the walking stick into action in vintage Chaplinesque. He scrunched his shoulders and tipped his bowler, letting it run down his arm, a weak smile revealing the courage of the little tramp beset by cruel misfortune. He sang Smile, and the audience loved him.

At the end of the song, he twirled, walked his Charlie walk and shuffled towards the back of the stage. The spotlight died, the curtains closed, the lights came up.

Timmy’s father was pleased. All the hard work, the day after day rehearsals, had paid off. That trick with the hat had taken months to get right. Worth it, though.

‘You can’t put it out if you don’t put it in,’ Tom Donald reminded his son every chance he got. The old jazz musicians’ maxim about the value of practice appealed to him. Timmy’s performance shouted its truth.

He was the winner for sure. Everybody said so.

‘We can’t find him.’

Claudine Charlton couldn’t believe it. It had been going so well. A good crowd. No hiccups. No tantrums. Even one or two who might have something. Not as good as the Chaplin kid but not bad. She watched Alec Adams giving out instructions. He’d been with her for years, from the very first contest, and she would be first to admit that when it came to stage-management, there was nobody better. They had been married once, a very long time ago. Claudine never let herself forget that he was a snake.

Alec shook his head. ‘No sign.’

‘Did you ask his parents?’

‘His father thought we had him.’

In a room off to the side, the judges sat round a beat-up table, drinking coffee. Claudine didn’t knock. The interruption took them by surprise.

‘We have the final result, Claudine.’

‘Who won?’

‘The little boy.’

‘Forget it. He’s out of the running. We need another decision and fast. Bump everybody on a place; that’ll give us a new winner. Stick any of them in third, it doesn’t matter. The cowgirl, the crowd liked her, she’ll do. OK? Two minutes.’

‘But she was awful.’

‘No.’ Claudine stared the objector down. ‘She was third.’

Alec met her behind the stage. ‘Cops are here. And the father. Somebody needs to speak to him.’

‘What? Oh, yeah.’ She ran a hand through her hair in quiet desperation. ‘What do I tell him? What can I say?’

‘Reassure him.’

‘You do it. You speak to him.’

‘It’s your show, and I’m busy. You’re the boss, remember?’

She hurried towards a guy in an ill-fitting suit – had to be a cop – talking to Timmy’s father. Uniforms covered the stage door; the front was already closed.

‘Mr Donald, Claudine Charlton.’

Timmy’s father was too upset to reply. She placed a comforting hand on his arm and spoke to the policeman. ‘I’m in charge. What do you need to know?’

‘When did you notice the kid was missing?’

The policeman glanced at Tom Donald and walked-back his tactless question. ‘I mean, when did you notice Timmy was missing?’

‘Twenty minutes ago. He was one of the last to go on. Once they’ve done their thing, the contestants stay in the dressing rooms. No wandering around until we announce the winners.’

‘Sounds fine. So how come he’s gone?’

‘Wish I knew.’

The detective gave an order to a sergeant. ‘Start interviewing. We need ID, names and addresses. It’s going to be a long night.’

Claudine said, ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Start looking.’

‘What about the show?’

He didn’t answer her.

‘Shouldn’t we go with the final ceremony? Keep it normal’

‘Good idea. Finish the thing. Nobody’s going home for a while.’

One hour later, a locked store cupboard in a back room was the only place that hadn’t been searched. The detective wasn’t prepared to wait for a key; he barked his instructions. ‘Break it open.’

Two uniforms forced the door. The wood frame cracked and splintered and gave under the pressure. In his career, the cop had come across plenty of bad stuff; that didn’t make it easier. The colour drained from his face, and he knew he’d been doing this shit for too many years: time to take the pension, kick back and go fishing. But for now, he was the officer in charge, so he made himself look at the horror guaranteed to keep him awake at night long after he’d turned in his gun and badge.

Stuffed in at the back, on top of paint pots and dustsheets, was a broken Charlie Chaplin doll that used to be Timmy Donald.

So it began.

Part I

Summer in the City

1

Julian Boutte threw his cards on the table face down so the FBI agents didn’t see his winning hand. ‘Beats me,’ he said. ‘I’m out.’

He yawned, scratched the heavy stubble on his jaw and stood. The agents ignored him and concentrated on the game. They’d been in the safe house since before the start of the trial – now ten days in – and were battling boredom. Their level of alertness had fallen; the prisoner was becoming part of the furniture. They called him Juli, talked football, and showed him photographs of their kids, while he faked interest and lost at Blackjack to keep them happy. Occasionally, they baited him because they could, and Boutte acted uptight, as if the consequences of testifying against his former boss, Beppe Little Man Giordano, the head of one of the oldest crime families in the South, made him nervous.

It didn’t.

Boutte and Giordano hadn’t seen each other in seven years, not since Boutte was convicted and sent to Angola. But the thick-set felon was a ghost from the past, the last man the accused would want in court: Julian knew where the bodies were buried – literally – he’d put some of them in the ground himself. If he took the stand, it was all over for Little Man. With Boutte’s testimony, the FBI would close down his operation and give him a one-way ticket to the Farm. As for Julian Boutte, he would be handed back to the U.S. Marshals and swallowed by the Witness Protection Program. In a month, a guy who looked a lot like him would be pumping gas in Oregon, or somewhere far from Louisiana.

That was the deal. Boutte had been removed from the penitentiary for his own protection, and it was common knowledge Giordano’s men were searching for him. The Mafia boss should’ve known he had nothing to worry about from his former employee.

Boutte paced the floor. Over at the window, he fingered the blind.

Sammy – the fat Fed – remembered he had a job to do and spoke without taking his eyes off the two aces he was preparing to split. ‘You know the rules, Juli. Sit down and chill.’

The agents had seemed distracted, but the admonishment meant they hadn’t switched off completely.

Boutte stayed in character. ‘Yeah? Easier said.’

The other agent, a bald guy called Maurice, enjoyed himself at his expense. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t wait to be washing those cars? Shine’em up good now, y’hear?’

‘He’s scared his pal Beppe’s coming ‘round to cool him out.’

The agents sniggered into their cards. Boutte pretended to be irritated and slumped into an armchair. He turned the television on and listlessly began surfing the early-evening channels.

Fat Boy wasn’t done. ‘Stick with the cartoons, all right. Stay away from the news, Juli. Your ugly mug’ll be on every channel between here and the Gulf soon enough.’

Maurice tossed in his two cents. ‘Don’t blame you for being nervous. Giordano’s gonna be awful pissed when you start blabbing. Introducing him to The Electrician at Angola won’t go down well. Might not speak to you again.’

The agents laughed and dealt a fresh hand. Their coats hung on the chairs behind them, and their sleeves were rolled up. Holstered weapons rested against crumpled shirts. Underneath the table, Maurice had his shoes off and was whistling out of tune: for all the world, just buddies at the regular Tuesday night meet, instead of law enforcement officers guarding the prosecution’s star turn. Boutte let them have their fun. The more relaxed they were the easier it would be.

He complained on cue. ‘When’s dinner? I’m hungry.’

‘Too soon. Have some potato chips.’

‘Sick of potato chips.’

‘Then suit yourself.’

The split aces delivered. Fatso grinned and pulled his winnings towards him. He pitched a dollar across to Boutte. It landed on the carpet between them.

‘A contribution towards your new life, Julian, or whatever you’re gonna call yourself.’

‘Shove it up your ass.’

Fat Boy was better at dishing it out than taking it. ‘You’re an ungrateful fucker, d’you realise that, Juli? With what you’ve done, they should’ve thrown the key away. Instead, you’re sailin’ free.’

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

‘Too right. Free and clear.’

Julian imagined the wall behind Fatso, splashed with blood and bone, after he blew a hole in the bastard’s skull.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

At seven, a knock on the door and an exchange of passwords meant the food had arrived. The game was abandoned. The agents opened the boxes.

‘Pizza again. Doesn’t the budget run to anything else?’ Boutte complained.

‘Maybe somebody doesn’t share your sense of importance? Eat it or don’t eat it. Your choice.’

‘I’m just saying. Does it always have to be junk? It gives me stomach ache.’

Maurice shook his bald head at his partner. ‘And they told us this was a tough guy.’

They ate in silence, tearing off pieces of red dough and stuffing them into their mouths until the boxes were empty. Boutte didn’t join in. Maurice wiped his hands on his pants and went to the kitchen to make coffee. From what he’d seen so far, Boutte was a loser; a low-energy nobody with an undeserved reputation. Riding him never got old.

Fat Sam rubbed his belly and spoke, spraying grated Parmesan across at his prisoner. ‘Gotta eat, man. Keep up your strength for when Beppe’s thugs come bursting through that door and drag you away.’

Boutte tapped out a Gitanes and lit it.

The fat man said, ‘Heard something once – way down the line – ‘bout what Giordano did to a traitor.’

Maurice came back with the coffee. ‘Don’t tell him, Sammy. He’ll go running back to Angola.’

Sammy smiled. ‘Too late. Option’s off the table. Wouldn’t last a day.’

Maurice agreed. ‘Lucky if he lasted an hour.’

Boutte drew on his smoke and stared at the floor. It was eight o’clock.

Almost time.

The overweight agent studied him. ‘Nah. Best Juli realises where it’s at. Anyway, the guy’s name was Foy. Narcisse Foy. Ever heard of him?’

Boutte ignored the question.

‘Took him into the bayou, stripped him naked, and tied him to a big old Spanish Oak. Then, they got to work on him. According to the story, one of Giordano’s men had trained as a chef. He showed the others what was what.’

Sammy savoured the details.

‘Started at his toes and worked their way up. Didn’t stop until it was done. Skinned him alive then dumped him in the water for the ‘gators.’

He paused and pointed. ‘That’s who you’re about to fuck with.’

The ash on Julian Boutte’s cigarette was a tiny grey finger. His hand was steady. As steady as it had been in the bayou fifteen years ago after he’d given up on the idea of becoming the next Emeril Lagasse. And Fatso had it wrong; they’d taken the hide off Narcisse Foy in two long sessions, though on the second, he hadn’t known much about it. Boutte wondered what had happened to the knife; it would be perfect for trimming the fat on this moron.

He flicked the ash on the carpet and followed it to the floor with his eyes. ‘It’s a myth.’

The agent hooked his thumbs inside his belt and let his chins settle on his chest. ‘Maybe so. Maybe so. But what if it isn’t, Juli? You ready to die that hard? Oh, and just so we’re straight. If they come for you, I won’t stand in their way.’

Boutte got out of his chair. ‘Anymore scary tales? No? I’m gonna shake hands with an old friend.’

Alone, he revisited the plan. The next shift would arrive at seven a.m. Ten hours; more than enough time to cover the eighty miles to New Orleans.

When he came back into the room, the agents were watching a quiz show on television. They paid no attention to their charge. Boutte walked up behind Maurice. He reached over the man’s shoulder, grabbed his gun from the holster and shot him in the neck, severing his spinal cord. His partner struggled to get his bulky frame out of the seat, fumbling for his weapon. A bullet in the knee ended his attempt.

He howled and cried like a baby. ‘This is a mistake, Juli!’

‘Think so?’

A second bullet destroyed the fat man’s other knee, and he roared.

‘Talking of mistakes, Sammy, what Narcisse got wasn’t Beppe’s idea.’

Through the pain, the agent’s face twisted in disbelief. ‘You? You were there?’

‘Shame you never got to try my blackened cod. Some reckoned it was as good as the plate at the Commander’s Palace.’

The third shot shattered the FBI agent’s collarbone. Boutte ignored the screams and took aim; he’d saved his head ‘til last.

‘Could be I’m in the wrong business. For sure one of us is.’

2

It rained during the night. Hard rain that cut the stifling air and drummed on the roof, then stopped as suddenly as it had started. But by that time, along with half of New Orleans, I was awake.

Lowell sensed I was in the land of the living and padded through. ‘Good morning, mutt. When you gonna learn how to make coffee? That would be a trick I could use.’

Some people had kids to save their relationship. I’d bought my fiancée, Ellen Ames, a dog: a tan mongrel with white paws and the deep eyes of an old soul. He was in a pet shop window in Basin when I saw him, and while his brothers and sisters rolled all over each other, he sat at the back – aloof and apart. His expression said he was too fucking cool for any of that shit. Unfortunately, the relationship didn’t work out, and when we split, Lowell wound up with me.

Even as a pup, he was a creature of habit, starting every day the same, with porridge – no sugar, no milk. If it had been down to me, I would’ve fed him from a tin, like a regular dog. He had other ideas. I sipped black coffee, ate a bagel, and watched him lick the bowl clean, then he picked up my harmonica up in his teeth and dropped it at my feet – his way of saying he wanted us to cycle into the city.

With me vamping on a harmonica on a holder round my neck and Lowell running along beside me and wagging his tail, I guess we were quite a sight. If I hit a bum note, he gave me a look; he’s got a good ear for this stuff. My sister Catherine swears I’m eccentric. I disagree, although a six-foot guy riding a bike and blowing the blues for a music-loving hound isn’t something you see very often.

In the Quarter, shopkeepers were already setting-up for the next wave of tourists. Outside a café, a black cook with a cheroot hanging from his mouth leaned on the frame of the door. He smiled as we passed him, wiped a hand on his whites and shouted his appreciation. ‘Yeah! I hear you, brother!’

At Dauphine, I chained the bike to the railing at the bottom of the wooden stairs and climbed to my one-room office. As usual, the paperboy had used the Times-Picayune to improve his throwing action; the newspaper lay at the door where it had landed. Inside, Lowell headed for his basket. First up, I phoned Stella. Usually, we spent the weekend together, but on Sunday night, a friend had needed her.

‘Hi, baby. Missed you last night. How’s your friend?’

‘Better. Hates every man born. Who can blame her?’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Lucky for you.’

We chatted for a while, then I made coffee and scanned the paper. Two copies of the Times-Picayune – one for home and one for the office – was overkill. But I like what I like.

The news had moved on from the five-year-old kid abducted and murdered at a pageant up in Baton Rouge. At the time, details were scarce. I hadn’t read them, and I didn’t envy the detectives working on the case. That kind of stuff was one good reason for getting out of the NOPD.

The start of the football season was still weeks away. I settled down with my current obsession: The Word Jumble. Today’s puzzle was a beauty. I read the letters aloud to Lowell.

‘REPDHAOTI. Any ideas?’

He thought about it.

‘REPDHAOTI.’

Lowell was better at this than me, but I preferred to get there by myself.

Around ten-thirty, a call from Harry Love, a defence lawyer who hired me to do work for him from time to time, interrupted our attempts to crack it. Harry was a lawyer and a liar by trade, who tossed work my way – mostly uncovering information that wouldn’t appear in the usual background checks. He was a man of few words, who made a point of ending every conversation first, to let people know that in his world time was money; in mine, it was only time. Most of our talking was done over the phone. Harry knew as much about me as I did about him, which suited both of us.

‘How’s your dance card, Delaney?’

‘It could stand a little filling-in. What do you want?’

‘Just checking you’re still in business.’

‘Still am, Harry.’

‘Good to know. I’ll be in touch.’

And he was gone.

I went back to the Word Jumble, scribbling one failed attempt after another in the margin and crossing them out. Lowell stared from the comfort of his basket, telling me in his quiet way he thought I should be, at least, trying to keep the wolves from the door. Overreacting. We hadn’t died a winter yet, and I was doing what I was born to do: not very much.

Three hours went by, before the phone rang a second time: Danny Fitzpatrick. Fitzy was a detective with the NOPD and played bass in our band. He didn’t bother with small talk.

‘An old friend of yours is back on the street.’

‘Yeah, who?’

‘Julian Boutte.’

‘Impossible. He’s in Angola.’

‘Not anymore. Made a deal in exchange for calling time on his old boss.’

The trial had been front-page news for a week and a half. I hadn’t read it. As far as I was concerned, it was nothing to do with me. I was done.

‘You said back on the street.’

‘That’s right. They were keeping him in a safe house in Baton Rouge until