Authors: Thom August
Nine Fingers (20 page)
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, we pulled up to where we meet, down the block from the Drake. Wrapping his scarf
and coat tightly around himself, he looked at the meter, pulled two fifties and two twenties and a ten out of his pocket,
and handed them forward. Then he added the twenty he owed me from our game, and fifty more.
“Somehow,” I said, despite myself, “I get the feeling that you shouldn’t be tipping me today. I know it’s none of my business,
but—”
“Ah, Vincent,” he said, a wistful tone in his voice, “you have performed admirably, as you always do, and I wouldn’t think
of committing a failure of remuneration.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he waved me off. He paused before he spoke.
“Hush hush, now. There are some days that are better than other days, but every day is better than no days at all.” He paused
again. His voice was small, distant. “Our lives, dear boy, are fraught with…challenges, some great, some small. I have
mine, you have yours, and it is better for us both not to compare our struggles. But, whatever they may be, my lad, they all
pass away. Over time. They all pass away.”
I turned and looked at him, and we had a second of eye contact.
“Take care of yourself, sir,” I said.
“I always try, Vincent. I always try. And you take care, too. Watch that hand!”
With that he opened the door, and leaned forward, testing himself to see if he could move all right. He slid out and walked
around to my window. I opened it and looked up at him.
“Same time next week, my boy?”
I nodded, expectantly.
As he walked away I knew that I had done something; I just had no idea what it was.
The Meet; Near North Side
Tuesday, January 21
11:14
A.M.
:
Here they are. Cadillac stretch. Black. Car pulls up, almost goes past me. Pulls over. Backs up. Right rear door swings open.
It is the both of them. The Old Man on the left, the Nephew in the jump seat. The Old Man smiles. Leans forward. Reaches over
to shake my hand. The Nephew elbows him aside. Has something in his hand. Metal detector. Wand thing like they use at the
airport. Scans me. Up and down. “Sorry,” says the Old Man. “You know how it is.”
The Nephew motions to me. I scooch forward, raise my arms up to the divider. He gives me a pat down. Up and down. The groin.
Around the back. The ankles. A halfway decent job.
Turns to his uncle. “Looks clean.”
“What do you expect?” the Old Man says. “This is the last person who would hurt us.”
“Still,” I say, “cannot be too careful.” Saving face for him.
Zep? Still has that spark in his eye. Tanned, trimmed, well-dressed. The Nephew looks like hell. Bags under the eyes. Skin
all blotchy.
Old Man looks me over. “You’re looking good, my friend,” he says. “But I don’t remember the mustache. I don’t know if it becomes
you.”
Turn toward him. Pick up the corner of the mustache.
“Hah!” he laughs. “It’s fake! Talk about security, this man wears a disguise to see his oldest friend in the world!”
“You, I know,” I say. “Mr. Chase, I know. The driver up there, I do not know.”
The drivers are the lowest of the low. Trade you to the cops for a pack of smokes. Zep raps his knuckles on the privacy shield,
three times. The car moves out into traffic.
I take a chance. “How sure are we? Our information?”
The Nephew glares at me. “We got this from a reliable source, a very fucking reliable source. A friend of ours from Detroit
was in town. I can’t imagine he could get it wrong.”
We sit in silence for a minute.
“So,” the Nephew says, “we contract for a hit, something goes wrong, we need to know what the fuck happened. There needs to
be accountability, you know what I’m fucking saying?”
Look over at the Old Man. He gives a tiny nod.
“My instructions: shoot the black one in the back row, near the window.”
I look up. They nod. I did not misunderstand.
“Walk by. Scope it out. Two black ones in the back row. Check again. The drummer, she is female and more like Asian. Piano
player is black. He gets it. Later I hear he is not the one.”
“Some civilian,” the Old Man says. “Some conventioneer, a lawyer, I heard.”
“Then we bring in the reinforcements,” I say. “Ask me, lead them to a source of information. I lead them to a source, safe
place. Good setup.”
“Couple of stupid shits,” the Old Man says. “You look up the word ‘stupid’ in the dictionary, their mug shots are in there.
Not our best caliber. But hey, you did your job.”
“We don’t know if they fucked up,” Chase adds. “We don’t know that for certain. We’re not exactly sure what situation developed,
what they got—”
“What they got? One got a bullet in the head, the other got a train out of town,” Zep says.
“So, was it the woman?” I cut in. “The Afro-Asian woman?”
“Are you sure she’s Asian? Are you fucking positive?” Chase grills me.
“Name is Akiko Jones,” I say.
“Hey, those people will name their kids anything: Douchebag Johnson, Gonorrhea Smiff, what do they know?” the Nephew says.
“Looked her up. Martial arts instructor—”
“That doesn’t mean dick. I studied martial arts myself. Aikido, karate, judo, I—”
“Father is African American, in the army, overseas, a quartermaster,” I continue. “Mother is Japanese,” I say. I have to wait
for a second.
“Is she the one?” I ask. “Did the backups get anything?”
“Look,” the Nephew says. His tone changes. “We are not prepared to fucking say at this time. And it’s not your fucking business
anyway, is it?”
There is a moment of silence. The Nephew is breathing hard, working himself up.
“Then you have to go whack the other one, the saxophone player. What’s the deal with that? He’s not in the back row, he’s
not black. He’s not ‘Afro-Asian.’ He can’t be the one—”
“It was not him,” I start.
“Of
course
it wasn’t him. He doesn’t match anything about the description. Not a fucking thing. Who the fuck told you to go and whack
him? I’ll tell you who. Nobody!”
“I did not charge you for that one. That was no charge.”
“No charge? No fucking charge? Do you hear what I’m hearing!”
The pain is a five now. Turning from dull to sharp. I try to breathe.
“It won’t be tied to us,” the Old Man cuts in. “The cops have got nothing, nothing at all.”
“That’s what you say,” the Nephew says.
“No,” the Old Man says, “that’s what the
cops
say.” Gives the Nephew his cold hard stare. The one he’s been saving up. “You know our source at State Street. Our source
is unimpeachable. He says they got nothing, they got nothing.”
Shuts the Nephew up.
“Why don’t you run it down for us? Give us a sense of the players.”
“Powell: trumpet player. He is black, but he stands in the front row. He is the leader. Serious, quiet. Does nothing but the
music. Fahey: White, not black, and up front, not in back, saxophones. Worrell: He’s white, sits in back, plays bass. Professor,
down at the U. of C. Amatucci: Italian American, from New York. Sat in back, at the piano, but not that night. Does not seem
shook up by it. Still driving a cab, broad daylight. Works for the Fat Man—”
“The Fat Man?” Zep asks. “Marcus Hanson?” His eyebrows are raised.
“Yeah, what—”
“Nothing,” he says.
I look at him sideways. He knows things that he cannot tell me how he knows them.
“Jones: drummer. She is Afro-Asian. Sits in the back. With the drums. Looks mostly Asian, short straight hair. Teaches at
some martial arts place. She is female. Landreau: white, maybe forty-something. Shows up in town
after
the first hit,” I say. “My source says he knows Powell. Supposed to play very good.”
“What is this, some music review in the fucking
Tribune?
” the Nephew says. “ ‘Supposed to play very good.’What does that have to do with anything?”
“A lot older, he…Plane gets forced down in a storm. Got here too late.”
The Old Man leans forward. “One more for you to look out for.”
We both turn his way. He always likes this part of it.
“Ridlin, Ken. White male, early fifties, six-three, thin. Really thin.” Looks at me, eyebrows arching, waiting. “Remember
him?”
“The Riddler,” I say.
“One and the same,” the Old Man says. Has a little grin on his face.
“ ‘The Riddler’?” the Nephew asks. “What the fuck is this? Did I just walk into a fucking Batman movie? The Riddler? How come
you never told me about—”
“Just happened,” the Old Man says. “The cops just put him onto it.”
“Been thinking he is out of it,” I say. “Since that time…”
“He was,” the Old Man says. “
Way
out of it. A couple of years ago, he gets back in. The cops send him to Siberia. He works his way back up, now he’s back in
Homicide.”
“Ridlin,” I say.
“Who the fuck is Ridlin?” the Nephew asks. “You going to fucking clue me in?”
“Like I said,” the Old Man says, “I just got the word, from our guy downtown. Ridlin goes way back. We had some, uh, dealings
with him, back when you were still in diapers. This guy, he had it out with your father, once upon a time. Frank, well, Frank
held his own. Like always. But Ridlin? A straight arrow, old school. They just put him on it, inside.”
“Inside?” the Nephew asks.
“The new saxophone player?” I say.
The Old Man nods.
The Nephew’s head is swiveling. “What the fuck? What does it mean?”
“It means,” the Old Man says, “that the cops have put a cop in the band. He used to play saxophone, back in the day, and now
he’s on the inside. It means it’s going to be harder now. We go in there blazing, now we have someone who will shoot back.
And not just anyone, but a decorated detective…”
“With something to prove,” I add.
“Oh, yes, my friend, with a
lot
to prove,” he says.
The car goes around the block again. The Old Man notices. Picks up a phone, presses a number, speaks. “Could you please find
somewhere else to drive? We’re being a little obvious here, going around the same block, over and over.”
Pauses. Listens.
“What am I, Traffic on the Twos? I don’t care where you drive, just drive somewhere else.” Slams the phone down.
Driver makes an immediate left.
The Nephew speaks up. “Here’s what we do.” We listen. “This band, they’re playing again tomorrow night, at the Casbah. You
know the place?”
Surprise. He is doing some homework. I nod.
“We let Laura out tomorrow night. She’s been all cooped up, she’s going to want to see whoever it is. You go there, wait for
her to show up and see who she sees.”
“Not what I do,” I say.
“That’s true…” the Old Man says. “That’s the way it’s always been…”
“What the fuck?” the Nephew says. “We’ll pay you your normal rate, just to look and report back. The same money you get for
a hit. That’s fair, isn’t it?” he says, asking the Old Man.
“It’s not about the money…” The Old Man and I both say this. At the same time.
“It would mean exposure,” the Old Man says. “One reason our friend here has been able to help us out in this way for so many
years is that he does not do anything but what he does. And no one ever sees him do it, except maybe the vic, and the vic
doesn’t live to tell about it. What you’re talking about, he could be seen. We have other people. Send someone else.”
The Nephew is not happy.
“I am so tired of this fucking shit,” he says.
“Number one, he knows the players, right? He won’t get confused or give us some cryptic shit about ‘the black one in the back.’
He can just say ‘Powell,’ or ‘Jones,’ or whoever. Number two, he’s supposed to be so good at disguises, right? So he can do
it again, a different disguise. And number three, I mean, this isn’t some stupid coke deal. This is a
family
thing…I say we use the best we’ve fucking got and keep it close to us.”
The Old Man is staring out the window. He is not going to back me up on this.
“So,” the Nephew says, “it sounds like we have a fucking plan.”
“How are you going to make sure she gets out?” the Old Man asks.
“What, Laura? Don’t worry about it, that’s my end.” He turns to me. “You just make sure you’re there to see who she runs to.”
Nothing I can do. Trapped in this.
“So you’ll do this, and report back, what, Thursday, same time, same place, we’ll pick you up—”
“No,” I say. “Different time, different place.” Least I can do. “Say, two in the afternoon, bus shelter at Fifty-first and
Lake Park, southwest corner.”
Least I can do. But this is not good. This is not good at all.
At the Casbah
Wednesday, January 22
Powell is already here when I walk in. He’s standing on the stage, in a corner, with his back to the room, a Harmon mute in
his trumpet, playing long tones. You can’t hear it, because he’s playing along with the tune that’s on the Muzak, which is
some pop thing, all dynamics and no soul. He’s being very unobtrusive, playing pianissimo. It’s harder to play soft than it
is to play loud, especially on an instrument like the trumpet. This is something I know from before. If you didn’t look closely,
you would think he was just standing there, holding that horn up to his lips, not playing, but maybe just warming it up. Maybe
not even warming it up but just getting the feel of it. Maybe not even getting the feel of it but just resting it in his hands.
When you look closely, you can see the muscles in his embouchure tightening. If you look really closely, you can see his chest
rising slightly as he breathes in. Impressive. Myself, I must look like I’m gasping, drowning, going down for the third time.
Powell is not drowning. He’s swimming. No, he’s not swimming, he’s floating on his back. No, he’s not floating, he’s on a
raft, half-asleep, gliding with the tide. That’s how good his breathing is. On my best day, back when I could play all night,
I never had breathing like this.
Powell is standing by the piano, pointing toward it. As I get closer, I see a head, dark hair, over the edge of the piano,
slowly bobbing up and down with the downbeat. It’s Amatucci, leaning over. He’s playing simple chords, as softly as Powell.
I cannot hear him; I can see his hand moving, his right hand. His left hand is down in his lap. They are playing together,
the way they have for years.
The stage is on the left as you come in, in the front right corner as you face the front of the building. Opposite it is a
long wide bar. No wood, just a kind of rough sandstone texture, curved, swooping in and around. The lights behind it are all
indirect. You can’t see the lights themselves, just the glow on all the pretty bottles.
Along both sides are little alcoves with semi-hidden tables, places to have a quiet drink, places to have a private romantic
moment. You can only see in from directly in front of each—from the side they are shadowed by the arches.
In the center of the room, small round tables are scattered about. I watch a waiter swerve his way through them, a tray of
drinks on his upturned palm. And then I notice it—there is no floor, just sand, maybe half a foot, I think. Everywhere. Oh,
man.
I look up. In a sort of closed balcony there are tiny spaces that look like caves. I see a woman’s hand at one of them, lolling
over the curved ledge, but you can’t see inside them at all. Very private. Very dark. Flickers of candlelight.
If Ford’s Theatre had been built this way, they never would have caught John Wilkes Booth. Caught him? They never would have
seen him. I keep scanning, at the spiral staircase leading to the balcony, at the tables tucked under the overhang, at the
mess in the middle.
I don’t know what I’m seeing.
Of course, I don’t know what I’m looking for, either.