went to see if I could help."
Valentin snickered at Ten Penny's earnest expression. "He was dead when you got out there?"
"He was finished."
"So you went ahead and robbed him."
Ten Penny's eyes did a nervous hop toward the jailer. "Well, somebody was gonna get it."
"You took his purse. What else?"
"That was all."
"No, it wasn't," Valentin said tersely. "You grabbed his watch, but it fell and broke apart. You were about to take his finger to get his wedding band. So I'm asking again. What else?"
Ten Penny shook his head one way and then the other, attempting to appear innocent.
"Was there a ring on his right hand?"
"Naw, nothin' like that."
"What happened to it?"
"I don't know what you—"
"What happened to the fucking ring?" Valentin snarled suddenly.
Ten Penny gave a start. "All right, all right!" He cleared his throat. "I got one, all right. But I want somethin' for it."
"You'll get something for it," Valentin said. "I might be able to save your life. Or I could just go out there and toss the alley and see if I can find it myself. And then let these coppers have at you. You'll be lucky if you last a day."
"No, I'll tell you," Ten Penny said quickly. He described a loose brick next to a doorframe.
Valentin got to his feet. With his back to the jailer, he said, "You better hope it's still there."
"Say, you gonna get me out of this?" Ten Penny called to him. "They like to put a rope round my neck."
Valentin looked through the bars. "I'll do what I can."
"Do what you can? What if that ain't enough?"
"Then they'll notify your next of kin."
He could still hear Ten Penny squawking as he went up the steps to leave the building.
Valentin had stopped gambling the night in Algiers that a game went wrong and he ended up putting a hole in the chest of one Eddie McTier, a backwoods Georgia guitar player and rounder who was an even worse shot than he was a cheater. McTier, caught double-dealing, had snapped his Stevens Tip-Up .22 in Valentin's face. The problem was that the Tip-Up only had one bullet in the chamber, and a second after it whizzed past his ear, his Iver Johnson had dropped McTier onto the sawdust floor and five feet three inches closer to hell.
Though he had sworn off games of chance that night, it was always a good bet that Picot would put a man on him. Since Valentin was too quick to pick up a tail, it seemed that the lieutenant just wanted to let him know that he was being watched. The man would be pulled off if he was needed elsewhere.
This afternoon Picot had sent a character from the shifting cast of part-time Pinkertons and private coppers that roamed downtown and uptown New Orleans. Indeed, pick any saloon and every other fellow at the bar would be carrying some kind of badge. This one was tall and rail thin, on the consumptive side, with a long nose and drooping mustache, dressed in a gray serge suit and black derby hat. He held a handkerchief in one hand that he coughed into repeatedly. That alone was like a bell on a cat.
Valentin thought about losing him just to show Picot that he could still do it, then decided to hold that card. He walked down to Canal Street and waited patiently, letting the next car pass, so that Picot's string bean could keep up.
He and his traveling companion switched to the South Rampart Line and rode for twenty blocks. Valentin hopped down at the corner of First Street and took his time strolling north. He picked up his pace a little bit as they crossed into the darker streets, taking a long way around, intentionally avoiding the blocks nearest the First and Liberty intersection.
As he came up on Willow Street, he made a sharp jag and cut down the alley. He was pleased to find that he was still deft at such maneuvers and could always slip away from anyone if need be. He left the string bean gawking and pacing in a panic. His prey had blown away like smoke.
In a minute Valentin had found what was left of Ten Penny's hovel and located the loose brick
Valentin snickered at Ten Penny's earnest expression. "He was dead when you got out there?"
"He was finished."
"So you went ahead and robbed him."
Ten Penny's eyes did a nervous hop toward the jailer. "Well, somebody was gonna get it."
"You took his purse. What else?"
"That was all."
"No, it wasn't," Valentin said tersely. "You grabbed his watch, but it fell and broke apart. You were about to take his finger to get his wedding band. So I'm asking again. What else?"
Ten Penny shook his head one way and then the other, attempting to appear innocent.
"Was there a ring on his right hand?"
"Naw, nothin' like that."
"What happened to it?"
"I don't know what you—"
"What happened to the fucking ring?" Valentin snarled suddenly.
Ten Penny gave a start. "All right, all right!" He cleared his throat. "I got one, all right. But I want somethin' for it."
"You'll get something for it," Valentin said. "I might be able to save your life. Or I could just go out there and toss the alley and see if I can find it myself. And then let these coppers have at you. You'll be lucky if you last a day."
"No, I'll tell you," Ten Penny said quickly. He described a loose brick next to a doorframe.
Valentin got to his feet. With his back to the jailer, he said, "You better hope it's still there."
"Say, you gonna get me out of this?" Ten Penny called to him. "They like to put a rope round my neck."
Valentin looked through the bars. "I'll do what I can."
"Do what you can? What if that ain't enough?"
"Then they'll notify your next of kin."
He could still hear Ten Penny squawking as he went up the steps to leave the building.
Valentin had stopped gambling the night in Algiers that a game went wrong and he ended up putting a hole in the chest of one Eddie McTier, a backwoods Georgia guitar player and rounder who was an even worse shot than he was a cheater. McTier, caught double-dealing, had snapped his Stevens Tip-Up .22 in Valentin's face. The problem was that the Tip-Up only had one bullet in the chamber, and a second after it whizzed past his ear, his Iver Johnson had dropped McTier onto the sawdust floor and five feet three inches closer to hell.
Though he had sworn off games of chance that night, it was always a good bet that Picot would put a man on him. Since Valentin was too quick to pick up a tail, it seemed that the lieutenant just wanted to let him know that he was being watched. The man would be pulled off if he was needed elsewhere.
This afternoon Picot had sent a character from the shifting cast of part-time Pinkertons and private coppers that roamed downtown and uptown New Orleans. Indeed, pick any saloon and every other fellow at the bar would be carrying some kind of badge. This one was tall and rail thin, on the consumptive side, with a long nose and drooping mustache, dressed in a gray serge suit and black derby hat. He held a handkerchief in one hand that he coughed into repeatedly. That alone was like a bell on a cat.
Valentin thought about losing him just to show Picot that he could still do it, then decided to hold that card. He walked down to Canal Street and waited patiently, letting the next car pass, so that Picot's string bean could keep up.
He and his traveling companion switched to the South Rampart Line and rode for twenty blocks. Valentin hopped down at the corner of First Street and took his time strolling north. He picked up his pace a little bit as they crossed into the darker streets, taking a long way around, intentionally avoiding the blocks nearest the First and Liberty intersection.
As he came up on Willow Street, he made a sharp jag and cut down the alley. He was pleased to find that he was still deft at such maneuvers and could always slip away from anyone if need be. He left the string bean gawking and pacing in a panic. His prey had blown away like smoke.
In a minute Valentin had found what was left of Ten Penny's hovel and located the loose brick
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