The Righteous Cut by Robert Skinner

dropped to a cottony whisper. “I’m investigating a cold-blooded murder and a kidnapping, Miss Mereaux. If I had the time, I’d haul you in for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Think about what I said, before I have time to come back here. Let’s go, Sam.”
    They paused out at the car, Daggett using a handkerchief to wipe his neck and the sweatband of his hat.
    â€œYou got pretty wound up in there, Iz.”
    Daggett snorted. “Maybe. In a few more months, I’m gonna be a father. I have this strange feelin’ it might be a girl. Maybe that’s what I was thinking about.”
    Andrews nodded soberly. “I hear you. You wanna look up the gal at Ma Rankin’s that Smoker mentioned?”
    â€œIt’s the only other lead we got. Let’s roll.”

Chapter 5
    Two hours after Georgia Richards left his apartment, Farrell took to the streets with his mind full of questions. Kidnapping was something he’d had little experience with, but it occurred to him that there could be only two reasons for such a move against Whit Richards: money or advantage.
    The Quarter was the same as ever, street noise lightly mixed with jazz escaping the doors of juke joints and nightclubs warming up for the night’s business. Eventually he reached the nameless club identified only by its trademark neon sign, the top-hatted crawfish with his two-olive martini. The colored kid at the door grinned his recognition and slipped him some skin as he passed through.
    He saw immediately that his friend Little Head Lucas had spruced the place up since his last visit. Where the Wurlitzer juke box used to hold sway was a real bandstand, and on it were the Bones Melancon Sextette and Anna Lou Hamer just breaking into “Kick It,” a number recently recorded by Krupa’s band.
    He located Little Head Lucas near the bar, his table now on a small raised platform. Oblivious to the music, the big man’s dark face was bent over his chessboard as his thick fingers tickled the tops of the black chess pieces.
    â€œI was afraid for a second I’d come to the wrong place,” Farrell said when he was close enough to be heard.
    The Negro lifted his head and turned, his face breaking into a huge grin as he recognized his old friend. He rose and pulled Farrell to the platform, enfolding him in a bear hug. “Man, I was afraid I wasn’t ever gonna see you again. When’d you get back?”
    â€œEarlier today. This is my first time out.”
    â€œAnd you come here first. I’m honored, my man. Sit down there.” He snapped his fingers loudly and made a signal to the bartender as he returned to his seat. “What’s it like in Cuba?”
    Farrell removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick reddish-brown hair. “Havana’s a lot like New Orleans, pal. Anything goes if you got the price of the ticket.”
    Little Head’s broad grin faded and an appraising look replaced it. “How you doin’? That was pretty tough, what happened last year. I never got a chance to tell you how bad I felt about Luis Martinez.”
    Farrell looked down at the chessboard, shaking his head. Even now he found it hard to talk about the death of his old friend. “Yeah. I know. That’s all ancient history now.” He was saved from further discussion by the arrival of two tall glasses full of lime juice and Barbados rum.
    Lucas picked up a glass and touched it to Farrell’s. “Good times, man. Let ’em roll.”
    Farrell smiled. “I hear you.”
    They drank in silence, listening for a while to Anna Lou croon words of love as only she could. Little Head watched Farrell covertly, concern in his eyes. He had known Farrell a long time, and recognized tension in the set of Farrell’s body, the way his pale eyes moved restlessly across the crowd.
    â€œWhat’s cookin’, Pops? I know you’re into somethin’, so