Orleans was quiet. Jazz music played from every doorway, every window, and night clubs were filled to capacity.
There were no murders that night.
A popular new tune swept the city shortly after. It was called "The Mysterious Axman's Jazz; or, Don't Scare Me Papa."
Two more attacks after that left both victims alive, but unable to offer investigators any useful information.
The final attack came on the night of October 27. The Axeman's last known victim was a man named Pepitone, head cleaved in by an axe, discovered by his wife, who was unable to tell police anything about the killer even though she saw him fleeing through an open window.
Miles placed the last newspaper on the towering stack of paper and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed wearily.
Italian grocers. How odd that so many of the victims fit that description. But not all of them. Just enough to seem unusual, without being of any use as a clue to the killer's motive.
But if the victim's ethnicity had anything to do with their murders, it made the idea of the Axeman working for Matranga and the Black Hand more feasible. After all, weren't their fellow Italians the Black Hand's primary victims?
But the victims now were prostitutes. None of them being of Italian lineage.
It struck him interesting, and disheartening, that the papers now weren't reporting on the series of axe murders in Storyville. Three dead whores and no one cared.
Miles leafed through the papers again until he found the one dated March 13, 1919. He turned to the supposed Axeman's letter, read it again.
He tossed the newspaper on the floor, unmindful of it tearing, and stood up.
If this was indeed the same killer, whether he worked for the Black Hand or not, his days were numbered.
The worst spirit that ever existed
?
Well
, Miles thought.
We'll just have to see about that
.
-Six-
Sal Ventucci was stocking the canned vegetables when the little bell over the door clanged and the three heavies came in. Matranga's boys. Again.
The one called Antonio had a black eye and a bandage on his jaw, and Sal wondered what sort of hard case could've done that to the big bastardo.
He stood up straight and wiped his trembling hands on his apron; happened every time these gangsters visited, he couldn't help it. He hated this display of fear, but his nerves betrayed him every time.
He thought of his guest, the strange young man staying in the stockroom in back, and, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, the thought of Matranga's thugs meeting him filled Sal with dread.
"Sal," Antonio said, stepping into the store like he owned it. "We thought we'd just stop by."
It was late morning and there were no customers. Sal Ventucci and the thugs had the place to themselves. One of the goons, a mustachioed slick Sal knew as Petey, locked the door and pulled down the blind.
"Looks like you're closed," he said, in a tiny childish voice, at odds with his hulking frame.
Antonio smiled. A lower tooth was missing since the last time Sal had seen him. "We've come by, Sal, because Mr. Matranga himself is kinda shy."
"Shy? What ... what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. The boss is shy. He don't like to cause a fracas, you know."
"Fracas?"
"He tries to avoid direct conflict and all. So when it looks like there could be a fracas, a little confrontation, well ... he sends me and Petey and Fredrico in his stead."
The three of them started crowding in on Sal, so that the shop owner found himself forced back against the shelves. They boxed him in so close he could smell the aftershave and vague body odor from the thugs.
"See," Antonio said. "The three of us? We ain't shy."
"Now ... now, listen," Sal said. "I told you. I told you boys before. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I can't afford it, I tell you. I just don't have the money for it."
Antonio shook his head. "I think I know what the problem is here, Sal. It's a communication problem, plain and simple. See,
There were no murders that night.
A popular new tune swept the city shortly after. It was called "The Mysterious Axman's Jazz; or, Don't Scare Me Papa."
Two more attacks after that left both victims alive, but unable to offer investigators any useful information.
The final attack came on the night of October 27. The Axeman's last known victim was a man named Pepitone, head cleaved in by an axe, discovered by his wife, who was unable to tell police anything about the killer even though she saw him fleeing through an open window.
Miles placed the last newspaper on the towering stack of paper and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed wearily.
Italian grocers. How odd that so many of the victims fit that description. But not all of them. Just enough to seem unusual, without being of any use as a clue to the killer's motive.
But if the victim's ethnicity had anything to do with their murders, it made the idea of the Axeman working for Matranga and the Black Hand more feasible. After all, weren't their fellow Italians the Black Hand's primary victims?
But the victims now were prostitutes. None of them being of Italian lineage.
It struck him interesting, and disheartening, that the papers now weren't reporting on the series of axe murders in Storyville. Three dead whores and no one cared.
Miles leafed through the papers again until he found the one dated March 13, 1919. He turned to the supposed Axeman's letter, read it again.
He tossed the newspaper on the floor, unmindful of it tearing, and stood up.
If this was indeed the same killer, whether he worked for the Black Hand or not, his days were numbered.
The worst spirit that ever existed
?
Well
, Miles thought.
We'll just have to see about that
.
-Six-
Sal Ventucci was stocking the canned vegetables when the little bell over the door clanged and the three heavies came in. Matranga's boys. Again.
The one called Antonio had a black eye and a bandage on his jaw, and Sal wondered what sort of hard case could've done that to the big bastardo.
He stood up straight and wiped his trembling hands on his apron; happened every time these gangsters visited, he couldn't help it. He hated this display of fear, but his nerves betrayed him every time.
He thought of his guest, the strange young man staying in the stockroom in back, and, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, the thought of Matranga's thugs meeting him filled Sal with dread.
"Sal," Antonio said, stepping into the store like he owned it. "We thought we'd just stop by."
It was late morning and there were no customers. Sal Ventucci and the thugs had the place to themselves. One of the goons, a mustachioed slick Sal knew as Petey, locked the door and pulled down the blind.
"Looks like you're closed," he said, in a tiny childish voice, at odds with his hulking frame.
Antonio smiled. A lower tooth was missing since the last time Sal had seen him. "We've come by, Sal, because Mr. Matranga himself is kinda shy."
"Shy? What ... what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. The boss is shy. He don't like to cause a fracas, you know."
"Fracas?"
"He tries to avoid direct conflict and all. So when it looks like there could be a fracas, a little confrontation, well ... he sends me and Petey and Fredrico in his stead."
The three of them started crowding in on Sal, so that the shop owner found himself forced back against the shelves. They boxed him in so close he could smell the aftershave and vague body odor from the thugs.
"See," Antonio said. "The three of us? We ain't shy."
"Now ... now, listen," Sal said. "I told you. I told you boys before. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I can't afford it, I tell you. I just don't have the money for it."
Antonio shook his head. "I think I know what the problem is here, Sal. It's a communication problem, plain and simple. See,
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