by Bill Moody
Where is he going to come from? Down the escalator behind me? He could come through Robinson’s May to the escalator. From the glass doors that lead to the parking lot on the food court level, or clear at the other end of the mall, upper or lower level? There were a lot of choices.
They’ll arrive separately, of course. Tony and Karl probably with Rachel. Gallio from the opposite direction to the piano. I look down at the keyboard. This is one piano I’ll never look at the same way again, even if I play after today.
At ten to three I see Pappy Dean, the first familiar face, come in from the parking lot doors to my right, in a sport shirt, slacks, and his ever-present Panama hat. Dark glasses hide his eyes. His head turns as he glances around briefly, gives me a nod, then heads for a Greek pita place and orders something at the counter.
I glance at Coop. He takes no notice of Pappy, but Natalie, I know, has seen him. She gives me a questioning look. I shrug back. It’s not that I don’t trust Trask and his men, but somehow, having Pappy around is a comforting sight. Maybe I just want a jazz connection. Besides, there’s another reason I want him here. When I told him on the phone what I thought, all I got was silence, then, “I’ll be there.”
I’m not crazy about Natalie being here, but she insisted, and Trask finally caved in, but only if she stayed with Coop.
With my back to the escalator, I continue to play, keeping my eyes on Coop to gauge his reaction. I wish the velvet rope around the piano was something more substantial as I ease into a slow blues and mentally count off the minutes until three o’clock.
Halfway through the first chorus, Coop sets his coffee cup down and stares over my shoulder at a spot above and behind me. Gallio? Coop looks at Natalie and asks her something, but she looks confused. I turn slightly on the piano bench for a look myself.
There he is, visible to me only from the waist up, standing erect on the moving stairs, descending toward the lower level, looking around the mall below him as if he’s never been there before.
At first I think I’m seeing things, but there’s no mistake, except mine in thinking I could trust Gallio. He’s sent his brother Carlo.
I look back to Coop and nod. He speaks into the tiny radio microphone in his lapel. My eyes briefly scan the mall. Is the guy with the Dillard’s bag one of Trask’s men? His eyes are riveted on me at the piano as he sets the bag down on the floor.
Directly across, from me on the upper level, I see Tony and Karl come around the corner by the bookstore. Rachel is between them. She’s too far away from me to see the expression on her face. They stop at the rail and lean over for a clear view of the food court and me below. Rachel hangs back slightly. Good girl. Karl seems nervous. He keeps looking over his shoulder. Tony is cool all the way, probably enjoying this. I hope the couple next to them, also taking in the view, are Trask’s people.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Carlo Gallio reach the bottom of the escalator. He steps off uncertainly, glances toward the piano, then walks toward me. He reaches the velvet rope and stops, seemingly confused for a moment. He pauses, then steps around the stanchion, spots the envelope on top of the piano, and looks at me expectantly.
I end the blues abruptly and go into the first few bars of “Laura.” Carlo smiles slightly and nods. He reaches for the envelope, weighs it in his hand. I glance quickly above, at Tony and Karl. They’re following his every move. So far so good.
Carlo Gallio’s fingers fumble for the clasp. He gets it open and reaches inside, pulls out the diary, and holds it up for Tony to see as I continue to play. Coop gets up and moves back, behind the tables. I try to signal him with eyes to look above him. His view of Tony and Karl is blocked by the overhang of the upper level.
“Hey, Horne, glad to see you back,” Brent Tyler says, coming up from my left. He looks at Carlo, then me. “What’s going on? Who is this guy? I’m sorry, sir,” he says to Gallio. “You’re not allowed behind the rope.”
At precisely that moment Tyler’s cellular phone rings. He reaches into his back pocket. Shaken by Brent’s movements, Gallio drops the diary and envelope, looks at me.
“Get out of here, Brent,” I say.
“What?”
Gallio picks up the diary and shoves past Brent Tyler. “Hey,” Brent says, as he bangs into the piano. “What the hell is going on?”
Gallio pauses at the escalator, still clutching the diary, then bypasses it entirely and disappears into the Robinson’s-May store. The man with the shopping bag I’d seen earlier goes in after him. Ochoa trails close behind.
Some of the people at the food court tables have seen all this and are on their feet, pointing. Above, I see the couple at the rail slide over and move off with Rachel in tow, using the gathering crowd to block Tony and Karl. Coop is already sprinting up the stairs.
I don’t realize I’m still playing. I stop and feel like I’m watching a movie, and the piano bench is the best seat in the house. Brent Tyler is madly dialing his phone, looking at me.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Horne,” he says. Then into the phone, “Security? Get down to the food court on the double. Jesus Christ!” His eyes go to the upper level, where someone has screamed. Karl has his gun out, holding it over his head.
Coop is nearly on Tony now. He grabs for him, but Karl is panicking. He spots two men in green blazers rushing toward the rail, both carrying walkie-talkies. He skirts the security guards and jumps over Coop and Tony. Coop has Tony on the floor and is cuffing him.
Down the stairs Karl comes, knocking over some shoppers. More startled voices, and he pushes people aside. He heads straight for the piano. Brent Tyler sees him coming, drops his phone, and runs the other way, but Karl doesn’t even pause at the piano. I stand up and start to put as much of the piano between me and Karl as possible.
He runs past me, heading for the parking lot doors, and almost makes it except for Pappy, who’s moved over to intercept him. Karl dodges to his left, but Pappy trips him, and he goes down. Karl’s gun flies out of his hand and slides across the floor. Before he can get halfway to his feet, Pappy shoves him toward the glass door. Karl flies headlong, hits the glass. It doesn’t break, but the impact causes the glass to spider web. Karl bounces back and lies moaning on the floor.
Two other undercover cops appear suddenly, cuff him before he can get up. Pappy picks up the gun and points it toward Karl. I open my mouth to yell, but nothing comes out. Karl’s eyes widen; the undercover cops, frozen, stare at the barrel of the gun pointing between them. Pappy smiles at Karl, holds him in his sights for a few seconds, then lets the gun down and hands it to one of the guys holding Karl. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Coop leads Tony down the stairs. He glares at me as he passes the piano, but Coop pushes him toward the exit, through the startled crowd of shoppers gathering in groups and talking loudly. By now, with everything seemingly under control, Brent Tyler reappears and starts making appeasing noises to the crowd. More security has arrived, and they’ve blocked off the parking lot entrance.
Pappy, cool and calm, saunters over to the piano. “Thanks for calling me, man. I wouldn’t have missed this. That’s the dudes got Sonny, right?”
“Maybe, Pappy, maybe. You had me going there for a minute.”
He nods. “What you said on the phone. It might be true. Even if it isn’t, that’s how I think about it.” He straightens up as Ochoa comes out of the department store with Carlo Gallio, who looks frail and tired. He pauses at the piano, looks at me, then stares at Pappy Dean.
He holds up the microphone to his throat. “A moment, please,” he says to Ochoa in that mechanical voice that gives me shivers even here in the mall. He and Pappy stare at each other for several moments. Pappy takes in the throat microphone, the mechanical voice. A flash of recognition passes between them, and thirty-seven years seem to fall away. Gallio turns and looks at me once before being led off.
Pappy stares after Gallio for several moments. He looks at me. “I owe you big-time,”
he says. He slaps the top of the piano. “Don’t forget tonight. I called everybody I know to get the word out. They don’t come, they got me to answer to.” He walks off shaking his head.
Natalie joins me at the piano. “Wow, I think it’s time I filed my application for law school. That was scary!” She looks at Pappy’s retreating figure. “Why was he here?”
“I called him.”
“Why?”
“Something you said the other night, and I found more of it in the diary. I think you’re right. Rachel might be Pappy’s daughter.”
We’re soon joined by Coop and Trask as the crowd disperses and things return to some sense of normality. Brent Tyler pushes his way through, probably looking for his phone. He starts to say something to me, but I beat him to it.
“I know, Brent. I’m fired.”
At Metro Headquarters, I feel like I’m in a debriefing. Rachel is safely home with Louise, nobody got shot, Tony, Karl, and Carlo Gallio are in custody, but still Trask is not happy as he grills me in one of the interrogation rooms.
“You switched the diaries,” he says. “We got zip on Carlo Gallio, and his attorney is already on his way. He’ll be home for dinner.” Trask slams his fist on the table between us. “You better tell me you didn’t know Anthony Gallio wasn’t coming.”
“Not a clue, but it makes sense now. Carlo has hardly been out of the house in years, and he knows you have no interest in him or anything pending on him.”
Trask nods, conceding the point with a sigh. “All Carlo Gallio did was pick up an envelope, something we were going to give him anyway. We can’t charge him with anything and make it stick. Little Tony and Karl we can make with assault, illegal possession of firearms, maybe even attempted murder, provided you testify with Natalie as a corroborating witness.”
“Oh, I think you can count on that, John,” Coop says. He looks at me and smiles. “Right, sport?”
“I think I know how to get Gallio as well, at least put him on the run. We got Rachel back, but Gallio will soon know he’s got the wrong diary, and he’s not going to be happy about that.”
“How’s he going to know that?” Trask says.
“When you send Carlo home, give him the damaging one. I’ve got it in my car.”
“Go on,” Trask says. Coop smiles as if he knows where I’m going.
“If you publicize Tony and Karl’s arraignment, put as much media attention on it as possible, connect them all to their back-East family, the folks in Chicago or wherever are not going to be happy with Gallio. They were very unhappy with Tony Spilatro, right?”
That brings a searching look from Coop before he and Trask exchange glances.
“You know, if you really knew who and what Anthony Gallio was,” Trask says, “you wouldn’t be sitting here telling me about this scheme.”
“I don’t want to know any more than I do, but I want to see Gallio out of commission.” I explain to Trask about the Moulin Rouge campaign for restoration and Gallio’s attempted purchase and application for a gaming license. “This all started out with researching Wardell Gray’s death. That’s going to stay a mystery, I guess. If there was a file, it went down with Buddy Herman in Lake Mead, but the exposure of that diary is surely enough to screw up Gallio’s chance for a license and turn off the sellers.”
“How are we going to do all this if Gallio has the diary?”
“I have a copy, and it’s in a safe place. You simply get word to Gallio that if he so much as tries to buy a condo in Las Vegas, it gets published in the newspapers.”
Trask and Coop both stare at me for several moments. It is Trask who finally breaks the silence. He looks at Coop and says, “Where did this guy come from?”
“He’s got a point,” Coop says. “We could send a note with Carlo to that effect.”
“Or I could call him,” I offer.
“No!” they both say in unison.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, you guys work it out.” I’m suddenly very tired. “Can I go now?”
Trask sighs. “Yeah, I guess. I need a full statement on Tony and Karl, and you’ll have to come back here to testify at their arraignment, but yeah, you can go.”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Coop says. “Natalie is outside.”
I get up and shake hands with Trask. “You did okay, Horne,” he says. “I wish I could have been more help with Wardell Gray. I’m sure I could fix things with that mall guy. What’s his name? Tyler?”
“That’s okay, thanks. I’ve had enough of mall gigs, and as for Wardell Gray, maybe Coop is right. The past should probably stay buried.”
A hot shower, something to eat, a reassuring talk with Ace, and I’m feeling pretty good.
Ace has seen the mall incident on the six o’clock news, but he wants to hear a complete play-by-play, which Natalie and I give him.
“What about the copy of the diary?” he wants to know.
“You keep it, Ace. Use whatever you want for your conference. When is that, by the way?”
“In September,” Ace says. “I’d love for you both to be there.”
“I’ll do my best, Ace.”
“You’re leaving, I take it?”
I look at Natalie. “Yeah, this gig is over, and I didn’t even get two weeks’ notice.”
“Well, I’ve got exams to grade. School is going to be pretty boring after all this.”
Natalie and I drift back over to the apartment, both of us in a kind of introspective mood. There are questions to be answered for each of us. She’s going back to work, at least for now. I don’t know what’s in store for me next. More therapy and rehab? It’s getting old, and I’ve got to make some decision about what I’m going to do with my life.
I let these thoughts wash over me, then suddenly jump to my feet.
“God, I almost forgot.”
“What?” Natalie says.
“There’s one more thing. C’mon, we’ve got to go.”
“Oh, Evan, can’t we just stay here? Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I’d be willing to bet Pogo’s parking lot has never been this full. Cars are jammed in at odd angles where the regular parking has run out, so I pull down farther to a space in front of a real estate office. We can already hear the music before we get to the door. A hand-lettered poster is taped to the window:
SONNY WELLS BENEFIT CONCERT-BRING YOUR HORN!
When I open the door, a wave of jazz flows outside, ridden at the moment by a short, muscular tenor player in jeans and a black T-shirt .with Dexter Gordon’s face on its front. Knees bent, eyes closed, sweat pouring off him, the tenor player rocks slightly as Pappy Dean and the rhythm section chase him through the changes of “Just Friends.”
Natalie and I push our way in. It’s four deep at the bar, people shouting for drinks over the din of conversation and music. All the tables and booths are crammed, and some who couldn’t find a seat have staked out space on the floor. The air conditioners and overhead fans are working overtime, but it feels hotter in here than outside.
Natalie and I elbow our way to the end of the bar and jostle for a position alongside the end of the bandstand. I pick up an empty beer bottle from the bar and hold it up for one of the bartenders. He eventually spots me, and I show him two fingers. Somebody passes the beers over, and I throw him a five-dollar bill, wave a hand to signal no change.
We turn at the sound of applause. The tenor player finishes his choruses, nods at the crowd, and steps down. To the left of the bandstand a line of saxophone players, horns on neck straps, licking reeds, nervously fingering keys—I count seven-shuffle forward a few steps closer to the band.
Pappy points at one, a reed-thin black man in a baseball cap, bright red shirt, and dark pants. He mounts the bandstand and whispers something to Pappy, who nods his head, then yells something to the drummer and piano player. At the end of the next chorus the rhythm section drops out entirely, leaving the tenor player to tell his story alone.
“This is incredible,” Natalie shouts in my ear. I turn my head. I can barely hear her, listening to the tenor player come to the end of his second solo chorus. Drinks and cigarettes are set down as the rhythm section gears up to make their entrance. The tenor player blows through two more choruses. At times his tone is almost a cry. This is what I can do, he says. Then he half-turns toward Pappy, raises his fist in the air, and they go home. Everybody is on their feet at the end, shouting and applauding as the drummer closes things out with a final cymbal crash.
Pappy lays Trouble down carefully and moves toward the microphone, wiping his face again with a towel. His suit jacket is gone, his tie loosened. “Alright, y’all, settle down,” he commands. He waits for a moment until there’s reasonable quiet before he continues. “We got to give this rhythm section some rest, but let’s remember who this night is for. We’ll be back shortly. As you can see we got lots of bad-assed horns here tonight, so don’t go away.”
There’s more applause, then Pappy glances toward me and says, “I see someone who might give our piano player a break if I can get him up here to play a couple.” Pappy grins again and points in my direction.
Natalie touches my arm. “Are you going to play?”
“Doesn’t look like I have much choice.” I take a drink of my beer and look around the club. A lot of people look my way as Pappy pushes through the crowd toward us.
“You believe this, man,” Pappy says. “Pogo’s ain’t never seen no shit like this. I told you I get ’em here.” A tall thin man in dark glasses, T-shirt, shorts, and sandals sidles up to us.