Free The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters Page B

time I looked in the rearview mirror.
    I shrugged it off when we got near her place and nobody was behind us. Once parked, I walked behind Zella as we headed to her door. The screeching sound of tires trying to retain a grip on the road came from up the street.
    I shifted around to see a black Buick Century forcing its way toward us with the confidence of a much larger machine. In a swift motion I tackled Zella to the ground. A volley of metal came out of what looked like a radio receiver sticking out the back window. The Buick didn’t slow up, but continued its acceleration once it passed us.
    â€œGet in the house,” I yelled as I advanced upon my own machine.
    I roared the Ford’s V-8 engine from its slumber, and tore off in the Buick’s direction. I doused he headlights as the taillights of the Century came into view. The car made a U-turn on Charlotte and headed East Filmore Avenue. I permitted a number of cars to get behind them before the Century went right on Franklin Avenue.
    If the driver was a hired goon, he no doubt had been instructed to take a detour until he was sure nobody was tailing him before redirecting to his primary destination.
    I kept my distance with two cars in between us. It wasn’t difficult to tail someone, as long as you kept the proper cover. Most people don’t pay attention to who’s riding behind them, but the goons I was following would be.
    They stayed on Franklin before taking a right and headed down St. Claude Avenue, which turned into North Rampart. From Rampart they took Canal toward the river.
    As soon as they turned toward the river, I knew where they were headed. Instead, I broke off and rerouted onto Decatur Street. I parked and watched as the Buick pulled into the New Orleans Hotel, home of the city’s finest citizen, Johnnie Ranalli.
    Ranalli was brought into the city by the New Orleans crime family to aid in their bootlegging operations. He later branched out on his own, running illegal gambling and prostitution rackets, among other things. When the red-light district of Storyville was shut down during the Great War, Ranalli converted much of the abandoned area into speakeasies, illegal gambling joints, and other forms of prostitution. When police raids proved to be ineffective in stopping Ranalli and other rackets in the district, the area was bulldozed to the ground.
    Ranalli countered and took the gambling operations out onto the river, this time gaining enough political influence to get the police to look the other way. Yet this didn’t stop a Federal racket probe being made on him that led to an indictment.
    It was unclear at first what deal Ranalli made to avoid the sixty-year jail sentence he was facing. All that was known was that he and his big six muscle men had embedded themselves in the rotted hotel Ranalli had procured.
    Prior to all this, Ranalli and his crew had visited the Pelican, a segregated boxing gym. When I was motivated enough, I would spar with the aspiring amateurs and up-and-comers. Ranalli came by during such a time. He had long been interested in starting his own promotional company, and offered me a job as a trainer or even a manager.
    Many citizens of the city were afraid of Ranalli and there were warnings against getting into any kind of business with him. In the end, his plans never gelled. He summoned me to the hotel to tell me there wasn’t a chance he could ever get it to happen. I had figured as much. I doubted I’d have taken him up on his offer even if it had come to pass.
    I would again have to pay a visit to his penthouse room above the ground floor, but not tonight. I had to get back to Zella.
    *   *   *
    Her neighbors had gathered out in the street when I arrived. I parked the car, got out, and saw that they were all looking at me with apprehension. I ignored them and walked up to Zella’s house. The place wasn’t as shot-up as I thought. Most of the shrapnel had hit the