Morris PI

by Dion Baia

  “Ah…,” Bugs responded with a slight smirk.

  As they neared the club, the bass vibrations from the live band inside came blasting out of the door. It was hopping.

  Walter stopped them before they got any closer. “Okay, as soon as you can, sneak to the back of the club,” he pointed down into the alley, “and open that side door there.”

  Bugs snickered. “Oh, that’s all? Would you like season tickets to the Dodgers too, nigga?”

  “Just take your time, and maybe while you’re on your way to the bathroom, accidentally get lost or something. No one is gonna care; you’re Bugs Morganfield, for Christ’s sake.” He smiled warmly at his old friend.

  Bugs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m Bugs Morganfield. I know that, you motha—”

  “After that, feel free to jam and then take as many girls home with you as possible,” Walter interrupted. “Thanks, Bugs, I owe you”

  “No, I owed you, my friend. So we’re even after this. Slate is clean.”

  “Absolutely, completely agreed.” Walter said.

  Bugs banged loudly on the oversized, prohibition-style front door. After a moment, a sliding peephole opened up and a pair of curious hazel eyes stared back at him.

  “How now, brown cow!” Bugs laughed.

  It took a minute for the man to realize who was standing at the club’s entrance. The peephole slammed shut, the door simultaneously flew open, and Bugs was ushered in.

  The club was standing room only and at full capacity. Onstage, Scatman Crothers joined a grinning Cab Calloway and his band to do a special rendition of the song “Exactly Like You.” The entire crowd was entranced with the musical brilliance unfolding before them.

  Meanwhile, the employees of The Creo Room couldn’t quite believe their luck. They were astonished to see Bugs Morganfield, premiere bebop king, walking in unannounced with his horn.

  Luther, the head of security who had supervised Walter’s tussle with Oak Tree out in the back alley, hurried over to Bugs with a balding, heavyset man. He held out his hand, grinning from ear to ear. “Bugs Morganfield?! What a fine surprise! What brings you to our elusive little hideaway, my brotha?”

  Bugs smiled back but hoped to downplay their excitement. He wasn’t really in the mood for any attention, but he knew how to play the game. “Well, my brotha, I’ve heard some really great things about this place and wanted to get a taste of the old Delta. And I hear I don’t have to worry about my cabaret card here if I wanna go onstage with Louise and sit in for a couple of tunes.” He winked at Luther. He knew the issue with getting his cabaret card revoked was a valid one.

  If humanly possible, Luther’s grin grew even larger. “Yes, sir! You certainly don’t have to worry about that here.” He moved to show Bugs to the VIP section. “Right this way….” He turned and walked right into his coworker who, still starstruck, hadn’t gotten out of his way fast enough. “Take that dizzy look off your face and go get the man a drink!” Luther yelled at him.

  To Bugs, the grin etched on his face again, he said, “What would you like to drink, brotha?”

  Outside in the alley where Walter’s last visit to The Creo Room had been unceremoniously terminated, he crept along the lonely side street, trying not to attract any attention. He peered down into the same window as before and again saw Laszlo, this time alone. He was seated in front of a mirror talking on the telephone while straightening his tie. Walter made his way over to the back door and crouched down awkwardly behind the lone dumpster and overflowing garbage cans, biding his time.

  Bugs was now seated at the VIP section with two women on either side. Scatman had noticed when Luther had escorted him to a booth. So once Cab took the microphone and started singing, Scatman made his way offstage and over to the saxophone player. They shook hands, making small talk.

  “Would you like to play a tune or two?” Scatman asked.

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Bugs replied. “I haven’t seen Cab since Hartford, when I broke up that knife fight he and Dizzy got into. Hope he’s still not mad at me.”

  “Nawww, of course not,” Scatman assured him. “Tempers were just flaring, you know how it is. C’mon up.”

  “Okay. Lemme just use the john first and drain the vein.” Bugs put his hand up to attract the attention of a club worker, and before it was even all the way up, Luther was there. He offered to escort Bugs to the washroom, but he waved him off and had him point out the way.

  “I need you to do me a huge favor, my brotha.” He stared at Luther, who was all ears. “See that?” Bugs pointed to the horn case next to his feet. “I don’t want you to take your eyes off her, not even for a second.” Luther nodded and smiled, but Bugs didn’t reciprocate, keeping his stare cold and focused.

  “She was loaned to me by a man at the crossroads, and I gotsta give it back to him on my day of judgment. So if anything were to happen to that horn, anything at all, it wouldn’t be just me they’d have to answer to. You dig?” The color had all but drained away from Luther’s face as he stared down at the black, beat-up horn case. “Don’t let me down. Look after my girl, Louise.”

  Luther nodded at Bugs, shifting his attention right back to the instrument case.

  “Thank you, my brotha.”

  Bugs glanced over at Scatman, who had been watching the short interaction from a few feet away. He winked at the singer when he got up and started on his journey to the bathroom. Scatman cracked up laughing, forced to put his fist to his mouth to contain it when he walked back toward the stage.

  Luther was still staring intently down at the saxophone case when the employee who he’d previously yelled at came back with the table’s drink orders. He tapped Luther on the shoulder so he could pass by and put the tray down. Luther swung around and screamed. “Damn! Don’t you dare distract me, nigga! I got the most important thing in jazz right in front of me, and you wanna hand me a drink. Really, mothafucka?! Really?!”

  Bugs made his way through the club with his brim down and head low, but still, enough onlookers noticed him that it took longer than usual to ease through the crowds, pausing every so often to greet the various clubgoers. He reached a dimly lit hallway and passed a scale for people to check their weight for three pennies that spit out fortunes on a card. Instead of turning into the men’s bathroom, however, he walked by and entered the door at the end of the hall marked Private/Backstage.

  He passed several doors before reaching the back of the club where he found the one that had EXIT painted on the back. He scanned the hall and opened the door. Walter saw the metal reinforced door swing out and made his move. He leapt up and slid inside the club, rushing around a corner in the opposite direction from where Bugs was headed.

  The musician glanced over his shoulder to see if Walter had gotten in okay, and when he turned back around, he was startled by a large, portly gentleman who worked security.

  A flash of uncertainty went by as the two sized each other up. Bugs tried to determine if the bouncer had seen what had happened. Bugs knew all the rumors, and it dawned on him how dangerous an establishment like this was.

  The pause was longer than it needed to be, but the man grinned and blurted out, “Bugs Morganfield?” He pointed at the musician with a crooked finger. “Did you just sneak in our back entrance?”

  Bugs laughed and exhaled a sigh of relief. “Ha! No, I was just lookin’ for the john and took a wrong turn. Can you help me out?”

  The heavyset man burst into loud laughter. “I was about to say. Haa! I heard the door shut and thought you snuck in, ha! Now that would have been funny! Haahah! Right this way, my brotha.” They headed down the hall, the large man leading the way. “You couldn’t imagine who we get coming through that door. All kinds of unsavory mothas. And I hope you brought your horn…”

  Walter peered around the corner and watched as the man led Bugs down the hall and back out into the club. Once th
ey were out of earshot, he tried to get his bearings. Stacked up all around him were the band’s instrument cases and road gear along one wall, and against the other side were crates of food, alcohol, and soft drinks, all of which gave him a good amount of cover to hide and stay in the shadows. For the moment at least.

  He saw several dressing room doors leading back toward the club, and two huge double doors which led to the kitchen. Finally he spotted an entryway that led downstairs to where he’d last seen Laszlo. He crept over and proceeded down the dimly lit staircase. The walls were lined with autographs and photos of the many musicians who had performed there. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he cautiously peered around the corner.

  He tiptoed down the aging concrete hallway. The ceiling was low, perhaps only eight feet high. The walls were cracked, and at points, the concrete had been broken away, exposing the brick and mortar behind. Although muffled, the band was quite audible, even down here. Walter heard a noise coming from within one of the rooms, and a door opened at the end of the hall. He ducked into a darkened area marked PRIVATE and waited until the person walked by. He carefully opened the door in time to see a man heading up the stairs. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Laszlo.

  Using the sliver of light from the doorway, Walter glanced back over his shoulder to see what was inside the room. Something in the shadows caught his eye. He grabbed his lighter from his pocket and flicked the hammer against the flint with his thumb, causing a spark and flame on the first try.

  Against the far side of the room, around five feet away, was some kind of Haitian Hoodoo Voodoo shrine, and not a pretty one. It was atop an old, decrepit wooden half-table and covered with used red candles that had dripped veins of dried wax down onto the floor; it was adorned with feathers, trinkets, chicken bones, and other paraphernalia of the religious kind that Walter instantly recognized. He couldn’t tell if those dried crusty veins that decorated the table down to the floor were actually made of dark red candle wax or thick dried-up blood. One could never really tell with this sort of thing.

  He held the Zippo up to get more light on the shrine and saw a couple of wallet-sized, black-and-white, crumpled-up pictures of different people; some were taken outside from far away, others professionally done at a studio. Walt’s eyes widened. They were barely identifiable in the darkness, but he could make out scribbled writing in red ink, and cigarette holes burnt into the chests, faces, and the eyes.

  This all made Walter very uncomfortable. All of this kind of thing dealing with this did. “Whoops, definitely the wrong room.” He emerged from the space and started back down the basement hallway.

  He listened against another door and could just make out the muted voice of someone speaking German on the other side. He turned the knob and nudged open the door, which luckily didn’t make a sound.

  Laszlo Strozek was sitting at his dressing room table. He checked his watch and began to wrap up his phone conversation, unaware of Walter’s entrance. He held a marijuana cigarette and put it to his mouth as he said goodbye to the person on the other end of the call. The detective stepped into the room just as the piano man hung up the receiver. Walt purposefully made a noise when he closed the door, locking it behind him.

  Laszlo swung his head around and his jaw dropped.

  “Remember me, friend?” Walter asked, more rhetorically than anything, with one hand on the doorknob and the other on his injured side.

  “Mister Morris, what are you doing here?” Laszlo inquired, his entire body tense.

  “Drop the routine, Strozek. Or Herr Strozek.”

  Laszlo lunged toward a desk drawer and clumsily attempted to open it. Walter’s automatic was in his hand and pointed at Laszlo before the drawer was even half open. The piano man froze.

  Walter shook his head. “Tsk, tsk! You make another move and I’ll put a hole in you the size of a grapefruit.”

  The whites of Laszlo’s eyes were visible and he looked like a statue. Walter walked over and gripped him by the collar.

  “No! Please, don’t!” Laszlo shrieked.

  Walter put his index finger up to Laszlo’s lips to quiet him. Laszlo gasped. Walt put his gun away and checked the drawer Laszlo was going for. He found a small .22 revolver. “Whose is this? Is this what you were going for? A woman’s Gat?” Walter pistol-whipped Laszlo in the head and the piano man winced in pain. Walt stuck the .22 in his waistband and scanned the rest of the room. “Didn’t think you’d see me again after that little soiree on Long Island, eh?”

  Laszlo played dumb. “Wha…?”

  “Thought that was pretty cute, huh? Now, where are they?”

  Laszlo looked genuinely confused. “Who?”

  “Who?” Walter pulled out the .22 and hit him again. Laszlo recoiled in pain. “Caldonia Jones for starters, your goddamn girlfriend! Where is she?”

  Laszlo seemed truly flustered. His customary slicked-back hair was flopping in front of his face, and at the top of his head, near his hairline, there was a small trickle of blood from the beatings. He had dropped his Americanized accent and was now speaking with a heavy German pronunciation, one he usually tried so hard to hide. “Don’t you hurt me. I know people…you can’t lay a hand on me!”

  Walter rolled his eyes. “Where’s Hayden and the girl?”

  He could tell Laszlo wasn’t used to being in such a vulnerable position. The piano player was panicked.

  “You can’t hurt me!” Laszlo yelled. “I’ve got a deal with your men, the OSS!”

  “OSS?”

  Laszlo proudly blurted out, “The Office of Strategic Services—”

  “—Services?” They both finished the final word in unison.

  Laszlo had a huge smile on his face while flailing around to get loose of Walter, who still had him held by the collar. “That’s right!”

  Walter laughed. “Your agent friends Helms and the Mathers guy? The ones I saw you playing with. Is that who they work for? What, are you a spy?”

  “Well, I never!” Laszlo screamed.

  Walter put the revolver back into his belt, gripped him by the throat, and started to apply pressure. “Who the hell are you really, Laszlo?”

  Laszlo strained to speak, all the blood rushing to his head. “The war is over, Mister Morris. Hitler is dead! Think outside of Harlem. It’s a mass exodus!”

  Right now there was only one thing Walter was concerned about. “Listen to me, you Kraut sonofabitch. I want to hear the chapter on Caldonia’s kidnapping, and I want to hear it now.”

  He pulled out the .22 and held the muzzle against Laszlo’s cheek. Sweat was beginning to pour down the man’s face, and the eyeliner and powder he’d applied for his performance was smudged and starting to run. He clearly didn’t want to talk, and with every second that went by, it was evident he was falling apart emotionally. The more Laszlo squirmed, the tighter Walter squeezed.

  “I ca—I don’t know. I can’t…” Laszlo focused on the end of the barrel. His eyes were open so wide that tears began form in the corners.

  Walter tried to employ a different tactic. He smiled and motioned to the weapon in his hand. “You know, I hear hitmen like to use .22s. You wanna know why?”

  Laszlo stared at the detective but remained silent.

  “Because one, they don’t make a whole lotta noise, especially in a loud club like this. And two, they don’t have enough power to exit the body once the bullet goes in.” He tapped Laszlo’s forehead with the muzzle of the gun. “Once the bullet gets in there, it bounces around just enough to do some real damage. Hell, I’ve even heard of cases where it doesn’t kill ya.” Walter rolled the barrel of the gun over Laszlo’s face, letting it slide down toward his mouth. “I guess you’d be just confined to a chair, staring at a wall and drooling for the rest of your days. You can kiss the piano goodbye, that’s for sure.”

  Laszlo couldn’t take it anymore. As a performer, he�
��d appeared in front of thousands of people, in all types of situations. But this…this wasn’t the kind of stress he was used to, or able to handle. The unnerving, raw anxiety from this direct confrontation was unbearable.

  “I—I—” he cracked. “They’ve got them! They used me to get to her, to get to him. They have them both. They deceived everyone. Please! I just want out. I just want to go live my life in some small American town somewhere. Don’t you understand? I don’t deserve this—not all of this!”

  “Who’s got them, Strozek?” Walter hissed.

  Laszlo scrabbled at Walt’s lapels, and in response Walter jammed the .22 harder into the man’s side. “V…Von…,” He paused.

  “Von Stroheim?”

  Laszlo was visibly stunned. “How do you know that name?” he whispered.

  “’Cause I’m pretty sure he just hosted a goddamn dissection class at The Claridge Hotel on Garland Crane’s body while he was conscious!”

  Laszlo paled. “Oh my God….”

  Walter was truly losing his patience.

  Since Long Island, his worry for Caldonia had steamrolled into a tightly wound knot of panic in his stomach. She was innocent in all of this, and quite possibly might not make it out alive. A poor teenager caught between two worlds crashing together, right here in his home turf of Harlem.

  Walter pressed. “Talk to me, you son of a—”

  Laszlo’s mouth opened and it came pouring out. “Von Stroheim has them! They took her as leverage. Hayden refused them passageway south, so they took her, but that idiot Hayden was too thick to figure that out…he thought she ran away, and he hired you.” He jabbed at Walter with his finger. “They have huge plans.”

  “Alright, turn the record, keep talking….”

  Laszlo closed his eyes and mumbled something inaudible in German, shaking his head. “I—I can’t tell you.”

  Walter let go of his collar and slapped him hard in the face with the back of his hand. “Talk!”

  Laszlo winced in pain and held a hand up to his cheek. “They need one of Hayden’s freighters to get them out of the country, down to Brazil and to South America. They’re forcing him to get their cargo out of the city.”