by Daniel James
To his local community and the jazz enthusiasts who frequented his string of lauded jazz clubs, Ludlow was a big, robust beer keg of a man, good-hearted and comical with a twinkle in his eye and a warm smile, always greeting and chin-wagging with his regulars like the roguish sot that he was, and always easy with opening his wallet to buy drinks for the hired musicians who graced his stages, which he might on occasion share with them.
None of these acquaintances were aware of his dual life as a career criminal mastermind.
Back in the 1970s, away from the thrill of jacking trucks full of cigarettes, booze, electrical goods and anything else which could turn a buck, his life had been very much about rock’n’roll, gnarly free-spirited girls and, of course, dabbling in all things conducive to a mellow and righteous good time.
But those glory days of reckless youth couldn’t last forever, and he’d known he had to let his brain get a bigger vote than his balls. It was his era of new age thinking which got the fiery Ludlow his ironic moniker Laylow. His old crew found it funny that the crazy bastard who would roll the dice and pull any robbery, on any person or outfit, was now planning for the future.
Opening his first jazz club, 9 Lives, had been an inspired choice. Helping to keep his musicality sharp whilst aiding in the washing of some of his surfeit cash. The obvious business venture first came to him when he was in between jobs, enjoying his downtime and locked in an after-hours jam with a bunch of incredibly talented musicians at the historic Green Mill jazz club on North Broadway. He was sweating under those lights, lost in the beautiful maze of improvisation in front of a thrilled and rapturous clientele, and thought about how perfect the moment was, how everything else fell away: money worries, legal worries, girl worries, worrying about getting an extra hole blasted into his head by a rival. None of it mattered when he played. The music became distilled, boiled down to its purest form of virtuosity guided by the emotive soul.
Times were different now. Shifting colloquialisms, incomprehensible gizmos, and, in his opinion, modern music deep in the toilet. That’s what the taxmen of age and patience will do to you. Take what they can, sully what they can’t. Thankfully, neither age nor patience had taken music from him yet, and it would have to be a whopping case of arthritis for him to surrender his last expression of his heart and soul. The exciting days of hijacking were far behind him. But the music remained.
The rock-hard tips of his middle and ring fingers trilled some vibrato on the D string’s second octave. He slowly paced around the practice room of his private one-acre estate in Hinsdale, Illinois, the single lamp casting soft, homey light on the oak-panelled walls and brown leather suite. Through the picture windows he could see several of his men, Docherty and Woodman, loitering near the potted plants in the falling night, discussing one matter or another as they watched over the huge property’s lush garden and Olympic swimming pool. He stopped the guitar neck from swinging with one hand and reached for his tumbler of whisky, downing several fingers. Several remained. He knew he’d need them tonight.
Isaac Reid. That stubborn hard-faced kid who had found a soft spot in Ludlow’s old heart early on. Who had demonstrated tremendous loyalty with a silent decade cooped up in the gray bar hotel. Separated from his beautiful and pregnant wife. That knowledge had caused considerable stress for Ludlow, almost bad enough to give him palpitations. The guilt was unfathomable. And now she and her boy were senselessly dead. May they both Rest in Peace.
Ludlow and his late love Janine had been incapable of having their own children on account of her infertility. Barren, the uncouth used to call it, a term which not only incited tears and woe in his love’s heart but made him forget his decency and manners toward any careless-tongued individual who uttered it. Still, by the time the millennium rolled around, he and Janine no longer viewed the young Isaac and his thick-as-thieves confidant Roach as employees but rather as surrogate sons. Good young men, smart and dependable.
Ludlow closed his eyes and continued to let the music guide him in small circles about the room, playing for the spirit of poor Isaac and his lost family. He reflected on the number of times he had urgently spoken to Isaac prior to his trial, telling him of his intent to confess to his role of masterminding the mangled abduction of Alfred Jensen’s wife and daughter, and to condemn himself right alongside Isaac. Of course, Isaac had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his damn mouth shut, for he needed Ludlow and Roach on the outside, vigilant and protective toward Maggie and his newborn should Wyndorf come knocking for some retaliation. Ludlow respected the hell out of his tight-lipped disposition, but still found himself trying to negotiate with Isaac even after the sentencing, even after Janine’s heart finally gave in, telling him with tears in his eyes that with her gone he had nothing left to hold on to, he was a broken-down old man who just wanted to try to take some of the heat off a son he had been too hurt and confused to help. Who he had failed. Stony-faced, behaving like he held the monopoly on martyrdom, Isaac had told him that he would turn his back on him should Ludlow turn himself over to the authorities, thereby forsaking his personal guarantee to watch over Isaac’s loved ones. Ludlow acutely remembered that long, quiet drive back home, five hollow hours north from Randolph County.
Without conscious thought, Ludlow had slipped into a minor key, the maudlin notes like whimpers in the oak-rich room.
Such a blood-drenched mess, and it all came down to one bad decision. Hiring an unknown quantity in Michael Wyndorf.
The thought of the man produced a few bum notes and a fumble in rhythm and melody. Ludlow stopped plucking. He ran a workman’s hand over his crinkled and sagging face as he turned back to the large windows.
Right in time to see Docherty and Woodman drop like sacks of bricks to the spot-lit flagstones, the spray of pulverised bone and mushed brain barely noticeable from his higher vantage point. Ludlow hadn’t heard a single shot. Two pig-masked assailants materialised from the garden’s shady hedges like the gloom had bled them out. Their accuracy was chilling. The pair of them ran across the lawn with stretched shadows, the crimson dusk and patio lighting playing sinister tricks with their proportions. Ludlow’s heart leapt like a jazz drummer in a crazy time signature. Were there more, swarming his safe home right this second from every side?
Ripping the jack out of the guitar with an angry buzz, he laid the guitar on the broken-in couch and raced for the .38 special he kept in his desk drawer. His brow and armpits were already clammy from the fear sweat. He stepped quietly to the door and eased it open, thankful for the well-oiled hinges. A shattering vase broke the quiet tension that was suffocating him like a plastic bag over the head, the noise coming from some indiscernible corner of the large house. The absence of protective gunfire was nerve-rattling. Ludlow placed all his hope in the pound of steel in his warm grip and slowly poked his head around the corner, anticipating a quick white flash and permanent black oblivion.
No shots.
Quietly, he crept toward the ornate oak banister to peek at the wide hallway below. All he saw was the buffed limestone tile and polished table near the entrance’s double doors. Not a soul in sight. Quiet as death, two shoes slowly walked into his line of sight through the living room’s archway, the sight making his blood run cold. Wanting to keep the advantage in angle and height, Ludlow waited for more of the intruder to step into view. Maybe if his shakes allowed it he could place a round squarely into the top of this bastard’s head. He raised the five-shot revolver with both hands, steady and experienced despite the surge of adrenaline. The legs continued toward the hall, toward him, shins quickly becoming thighs, becoming torso, becoming gun-wielding hands, becoming … Smith. Ludlow sighed with relief. Smith was young and hard-looking with neatly combed brown hair, and, most importantly, was not wearing a marauder’s mask.
“Smith,” Ludlow whispered. “What’s going on?”
Smith kept his gun up, scanning the hallway and putting a pin in his boss’s pertinent question. With rapid, catlike steps, he ca
me around to the wide staircase and effortlessly took the steps two at a time. “Sir, I need to get you to the garage right away. We have an unknown number of armed intruders on the premises and the safest precaution is to get the hell out of here.”
“I know,” Ludlow quietly snapped, indicating his gun. The pleasant numbing effects of his afternoon’s liquid diet had turned to corrosive unease in his gut and veins. “Where is everyone?”
“Dead.” Smith was a seasoned pro but Ludlow saw the professional demeanor quiver at the unwelcome odds facing them. “They didn’t crash the gate. They must have scaled the walls and taken out Slavin and Nowak in the guard hut. The alarms have been disabled.”
“I saw Docherty and Woodman go down in the garden,” Ludlow said sadly.
“Let’s go.” Smith took charge.
“I’m regretting not installing that panic room.” Ludlow quickstepped after his guard in his slippers and sweatpants, his white t-shirt feeling sticky along the base of his back.
Even on the thick beige carpet their steps sounded deafening in the quiet house. Moving off the long landing, they tiptoed down the rear staircase, the wrought iron spiralling them down toward the large kitchen. Ludlow bit his lip as he set his foot down on each step, expecting the muted clangs to bring the whole mob toward them from all corners of the house. Those pig masks didn’t sit well with him. Not at all. Were they a coincidence? Or had Wyndorf grown a set in his time away? A set big enough to attempt such an invasion as this?
As he descended toward the harshly illuminated kitchen, all he could envision was the pigs waiting near the bottom of the steps, just out of sight, with very large butcher knives. However, he and Smith touched down without event. They hadn’t entered a shooting gallery or butcher shop. Neither of them basked in relief. It was far too bright in here; the light fixtures lit them both up like sitting ducks for any killers lurking outside in the garden, hidden by the windows-turned-mirrors.
Ludlow quickly slapped the light switch at the base of the stairs, wrapping them in a protective cloak of gloom. The last image he saw before the bulbs went out was the outstretched leg poking out from behind the kitchen island, forcing a knot into his dry throat. The polished black wingtip pointed up toward the recessed lights of the ceiling, a spreading pool of black blood soaking the back of the trouser leg. Steam rose from the mug of coffee on the island. Judging from the issue of Field & Stream on the table it was Davies. Ludlow had never had any interest in fishing, but he had bought the now deceased Davies a St. Croix Legend Tournament Musky Casting Rod and fishing tackle box for the anniversary of his five years on the payroll.
Smith caught his attention and tilted his head back toward the door leading into the garage. Ludlow kept his iron sight on their rear as they backed away from the kitchen. Smith nodded to him, you ready? Ludlow might have nodded yes but everything existed in a bubble of fast-moving uncertainty. Smith bolted through the door into the four-car garage, his gun eager for a target. Breathing deeply through his nose, he waved Ludlow into the poorly lit room, smelling of earth and a pervasive hint of engine oil. Smith bundled Ludlow into the passenger seat of a 4x4 and jumped behind the wheel, punching the button on the garage door remote.
He had just fired up the engine into a throaty grumble when two neat and silent shots did unpleasant things to his face. Ludlow gasped in horror. Smith’s blood was running down his cheek, onto his undershirt, momentarily suspending rational thought. The gun and its five lead slugs lay uselessly in his hand.
Standing in a ring across the gravel driveway were a wolf and four pigs in funeral suits, each holding a suppressed pistol. Each of them had him dead to rights.
Hanging in the Pocket
The crack of pool balls sounded like bones colliding to Isaac. He’d had another night of poor sleep. After ruining that punk’s dancing days back in West Garfield, he had gone straight to Pockets and proceeded to stay until closing time. Rico was a no show.
The next morning, Isaac showered, had a tasteless breakfast and went right back. He had nothing to fear. The crippled dealer and his boys would have been in Rico’s ear immediately after Isaac’s questioning, but all the interested party would know was a white guy was looking for him. And Isaac was just another pale face in Pockets.
Isaac felt like a small fish inside the hall, its interior lit up like a cold aquarium, columns of sapphire LED bulbs and tables of pale, mint green felt. He was growing impatient. He couldn’t foresee himself spending an entire day drinking water, potting shots, and expecting Rico to pop in. He retired his cue, letting a group of guys take over his spot, and was walking back to the bar when his phone went. Ignoring it, Isaac took a pastel blue bar stool, sponging up the groups of faces in the hall, double- and triple-checking that he hadn’t somehow missed Rico. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to Ludlow or Roach fret about bringing him close, but with nothing other than time on his hands he punched the button and got Roach.
“Somebody hit Ludlow’s house last night.” Roach came right out of the gate, knocking Isaac back momentarily.
“Hit? He dead?”
“We don’t know. Only found the bodies of his men. The job looked professional. Surgical.”
Ludlow … dead? Wounded? The news hit him, just another punch to his gut. Ludlow, the man who had taken a petty, hard-faced criminal straight out of juvie, a kid whose only discernible talent was a rudimental knack for thievery, and taught him how to be smart, how to stay clean. How to survive in the only world he was meant for. Better than a self-medicating, vanishing mother or scrounging, fuck-up father.
“You done a job on the wrong person lately? Somebody with the teeth to bite back?”
There was confusion in Roach’s voice. “We smash and grab jewellery stores and banks. Places with insurance. We don’t fuck with people who’ll hit back outside of legal channels.”
“No suspects?”
“I’m asking around. Got a few more names to cross off. That greasy little prick Payton, a few other guys who duked it out with Luds over the years. I don’t know, though, it feels like I’m reaching here. This seems like retaliation, but I can’t think of anyone who’d be pissed enough to pull something like this.”
“I’d have said Wyndorf, but surgical isn’t that sloppy fuck’s style. And it was me who really fucked him, not Ludlow.”
“And Wyndorf already fucked Luds plenty by killing the surgeon. And why wait all this time to do it? I mean, a decade?” Roach took a slow breath, contemplating something. “Unless he’s been busy making friends. Maybe he wanted to wait until you got out so they could scoop us all up.”
“I don’t think Wyndorf has the brains or the patience for a move like that.”
“That’s great, then we got Wyndorf and someone even worse up in our shit.”
“I was talking to Ludlow last night,” said Isaac. “He said he’d been trying to get C.B.’s ear about Wyndorf’s return. Said he couldn’t get a hold of him.”
“You thinking C.B.’s behind this? I don’t know, brother, I can’t see the motive. He and Luds have no history. You think he’s defending the honor of his shit-heel cuz ten years after the fact?”
“Maybe not. But maybe some of his local guys are tight with Wyndorf.” Isaac impatiently eyeballed the pool players and the few slow drinkers at the bar.
“Where are you now?”
A bulky shadow entered the hall, looming in Isaac’s peripheral vision. Glasses, goatee, tight haircut, thick sleeves of gangster ink, and a brown pugilist’s face which looked like life had gone a few hard rounds with it. “I’m still at the hotel. Hey, I’ll get back at you soon, stop by your place for a beer. Talk this through.” He disconnected the call, keeping watch on the big Mex in the mirrors behind the bar.
Rico was alone, orbiting the pool hall’s entrance and engaged in his own phone business. He looked agitated. Besides the Hispanic gang ink coating his arms, he went in for the respectable look in his fashion: a dark blue polo, beige chinos and brown leather shoes. Ric
o angrily ended his call and headed right back out of the bar, no time for leisure. Isaac carefully glanced around the place, checking for signals to see if something was about to pop off. His stomach felt twitchy, the way it used to before a big job, and he was anxious to get out on the street before he lost Rico. Forcing a mellow gait, he ambled out of the hall, keeping Rico in view. Knowing his target was wobbling on foot east down Grand, Isaac checked the avenue both ways. The roads were fairly busy, but Isaac didn’t spot any likely cars angling in to pick up Rico. He kept a wise distance in his casual pursuit, feigning interest in an ongoing text conversation.
After a couple of blocks Isaac started to weigh up the likelihood of Rico having a lab set up nearby. The likelihood grew in plausibility when Rico left the sidewalk and headed toward a five-storey self-storage building. Maybe Rico or his powers above owned the property, if not for cooking then maybe just for some legit income. Isaac felt his options thinning out quickly. Was Rico about to enter a huge brick box full of hired guns? Should he run up on him now, twenty yards from the street, and cause a scene?
Rico went past the entrance’s glass doors and toward the south of the building. Isaac stayed on him, tracking him into the large chain-link parking lot at the east side of the storage block. The lot was almost at capacity, and Isaac felt more exposed than ever. The storage building had almost as many windows as it did bricks.
Isaac now had his gun against his leg, carefully tailing the husky guy to a blue Toyota Tacoma pickup truck. He still felt a little twisted up about blasting that kid in the foot. For him, the gun was always a motivator, not an executor. His first major mistake as a professional criminal had cemented this opinion for him. The memory of that security guard lying in the street, bleeding out, still messed with him, proving his appetite for violence was strictly limited. And he wanted to reserve every last drop of it for Wyndorf.