Pale Shadow by Robert Skinner

cathouse on Soraparu Street?”
    â€œYeah, but if I’m not there, somebody’ll take a message.”
    â€œI’ll be back with you, brutha. And thanks for the drink. Liquor does wonders for my thought processes.”
    â€œAny time at all.” Marcel got up and Fred followed.
    They drifted through the crowd, nodding occasionally to a familiar face, taking note of newer ones they didn’t recognize. Fred eased up to his elbow and spoke into his ear. “You think that spook’s gonna do you any good?”
    Marcel shrugged. “When you’re lookin’ for somebody, you just keep movin’. You buy a drink here, lay a finif down there. It’s an investment. Sooner or later it pays off. If not directly, then sometime down the line.”
    They had nearly reached the door when a man they knew approached them.
    â€œHey, Aristide. They tellin’ me you need a Chenier.”
    â€œThat’s right, Harley. One who calls himself Albert.”
    Harley’s muddy eyes slid from side to side beneath his pulled-down hat, his thin lips drawn into a narrow line. “There was an Albert Chenier who was up in Angola ’til maybe ten years or so back.”
    Fred’s eyes narrowed. “How would you be knowin’ that?”
    Harley’s eyes did their side-to-side again. “Used to run with him. Did some bootleggin’, some penny-ante shit.”
    Marcel studied Harley’s narrow face intently. “How’d he end up in Angola? I don’t recall you did any time.”
    Harley’s thin lips cracked open and he licked them with a long, pale tongue. “Didn’t. His luck was bad. We was runnin’ a con out in the sticks. He got caught. I didn’t.”
    â€œDidn’t rat on you, huh?”
    Harley shook his head. “They didn’t come no squarer than Albert. He kept his lip buttoned and took the fall. They give him seven to ten up there at hard labor, too.”
    â€œSo where is he now?”
    â€œDead.” Harley’s gaze was bleak and he shook his head with a weary chagrin. “He was out with a chain gang choppin’ cane one day. Got into a beef with another con. Con cut his head damn near off, they tell me.”
    â€œWhew.” Marcel shook his hand as though he’d touched something hot. “That’s tough, man. I’m sorry as hell.”
    Harley blinked and shook his head. “Yeah, me, too.”
    Fred scratched his head. “Couldn’t be our man.”
    Marcel’s eyes were thoughtful, but he shook his head. “No, not at all. Thanks just the same, Harley.”
    â€œForget it. See y’all around, hear?”
    Fred and Marcel walked outside and stood on the gallery of the lounge as a cool evening breeze swept past them from the north. Fred pulled his hat down low over his eyes.
    â€œFunny story Harley told. The only Albert Chenier we’ve heard about all day long, and he ain’t got no more in common with the one we’re lookin’ for than I got with Pres’dent Roosevelt.”
    â€œYeah,” Marcel said. “Funny is the word.”
    ***
    Daggett and Andrews were nearing the end of a frustrating day. Their canvas of Linda Blanc’s neighborhood had been a bust, and Nick Delgado’s sweep of the murder scene picked up nothing useful. They’d spent the afternoon questioning known associates of the dead woman with no more profit. It was now three hours past the end of their normal day watch, and their rumpled clothes were stuck to their sweaty skins.
    â€œWhat’s next on the list, boss?” Andrews asked as he skillfully took the Dodge through evening traffic.
    â€œThis is tougher than I expected. I figured an ex-prostitute with her associations might lead us to somebody who’d know more about her business.”
    â€œSomebody taught her somethin’ about keeping her business to herself,” the stocky man replied. “Nobody we