The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel

by Michael Yudov

  “Ja, Ja. Und was for you?” She targeted Ronnie an Evie. Ronnie took it over.

  “I’ll start with a menu, please, and vodka, no ice. And a Perrier,” Then she mimicked me, hooking her thumb in Evie’s general direction. “For my friend…” The waitress looked at her again, almost with respect.

  “Ja, Ja. Einige Minuten.” She held up one hand with all fingers spread out. Then she put away the pen and pad without writing anything down, and turned to go. I called after her, “And four dinners, with the works. Danke.”

  She looked over her shoulder as she walked away, towards the front of the club, and called “Bitte.”

  Ronnie gave me a ‘What’s that?’ kind of glance.

  “They’re very casual here, but don’t worry, it’s under control, and it’s worth a short wait. They have to Bar-B-Q all of the dinners from scratch as they’re ordered. You should see the kitchen, it’s almost bigger than the front area here.” Ronnie couldn’t let it rest at that, and was about to ask another question when I pointed at the front of the club. Ronnie turned to see what I was pointing at. Along the wall to the left of the front doorway was a kind of communications station.

  Our waitress was at the station, doing a bidirectional closed circuit videophone call to the kitchen, placing orders and reviewing the status of orders that were either just ready, or about to become just ready. Ronnie turned back to me.

  “I see what you mean. They seem pretty well organized here.”

  “Wait ‘till you try the ribs. Straight from heaven. Although, for those of us who may not like too much meat, or any, in their diet, the salad that comes with it when you order ‘The Works’ is a meal in itself.” I looked pointedly at Evie. “Then the rest of us who do like lots of meat… well, that means there’ll be a few extra ribs coming our way.”

  Evie piped in directly, getting into the swing of it.

  “With pleasure, I will share that part or parts of my meal which do not fill me with delight.”

  There was a small home-printed card on each table, but it wasn’t the wine list. It was a weekly listing of who was playing at the club each night. I picked it up and checked out who was on tonight. It was a ‘NewJazz’ trio, but I didn’t recognize the name. They were from New York, which I took to mean the state, because otherwise you say, ‘New York City’, right?

  I could see the drums and the Trace-Elliot bass rig on the little box-shaped stage at the far end of the club. The drums were Gretch, identifiable by their trademark BIG bass drum, with the ‘Gretch’ trademark itself spelled out on the front-side skin. If you bought original ‘Gretch’ skins, which meant that the drummer had looked hard to find them, and then paid a lot for them. They don’t make those kits anymore, and hadn’t for a long time, but damn, they had a big sound. The Trace-Elliot bass gear stood out because of the Day-Glo green that the company used on all of the Brand Names and various small writings on the amplifier. This one was a small combo unit, it looked like a fifteen inch, with two eights. It stood about waist high, and had wheels for moving around. Knowing Trace-Elliot, it was probably pushing out between two fifty and three fifty watts. RMS. That’s a lot of watts.

  There was also an old Fender Bassman power head sitting on what looked to be a more recent vintage four by twelve Fender speaker cabinet, the one that used ‘Celelestion’ speakers. That had to be for guitar. Muddy Waters himself had played his electrifying brand of blues through the same amp head. It worked very well for guitar, probably better than for bass, which was what the original design had been for. They were also hard to come by these days, having been out of production for about twenty odd years or more.

  The speaker cabinet wasn’t miked directly, so the player was relying on the sound of the amp alone to get his sound across to the audience. The room was plenty small enough for that Fender head. Having more speakers allows more sound to be moved through the surrounding air, but the ‘Tone’ of the sound doesn’t change, no matter how many speakers you have. If they’re all the same speakers. And ‘Tone’ is king.

  There was a Shure SM 57 on a swing boom, sitting right out in front of the stage at voice level. I would have used a 58, which I do, for a warmer sound.

  The band were called “The Soul Tones”, and just maybe, they’d be good. We’d have to wait almost an hour before they came on for their first set, but by then we’d have had a chance to enjoy the ‘blackened ribs’ and their famous salad.

  If the band stunk, we’d split. If they were good, we’d split after the first set. Early to bed, and early to rise, etc., besides Evie had a new job in the morning. It wouldn’t do to be late on the first day, right?

  A tall, lanky, college-looking sort of fellow spun backwards through the kitchen door with two trays balanced, one on each side. As he passed our table he set down one of the trays, which contained our drinks, and then kept going. The second tray had two dinners on it, and so received the priority.

  I took the liberty of distributing the drinks, and leaving two folded-up fifty franc notes on the tray. The ladies all thanked me. It was quite a polite table this evening. I proposed a toast to our day, and we all clinked glasses.

  When the waiter returned, he looked at the notes on the tray, and said “Hey, thanks people, I appreciate it.” in perfect American Midwest English. As he was thanking us he gathered his tray and was gone.

  Even though the club was small, and the tables packed fairly close together, if we leaned forward with our elbows on the table, it was possible to have a private conversation. The background noise level was just medium, and didn’t interfere. As soon as the band came on we’d be effectively mute. I knew the club, and they let the bands set their sound at whatever level they wanted. Unless people started passing out from the volume attack in the first few rows, they’d be left to do their own mixing for the P.A., and the worse the band, it seemed the louder it got. I was hoping these guys were good. They hadn’t tried to put everything through the main PA system, and that was a good sign.

  Godsen was trying to catch the attention of our waitress, so I tipped her off.

  “Ronnie… Ronnie.” When she turned my way I pointed to the wall where the old juke box selectors used to be found in all the bars and restaurants when we were kids. There was a flat-panel display mounted into the wooden beam and stone of the wall. According to its instruction plate, it was a touch-control display. One of the Icons on the page was ‘Call for Waitress/Waiter’.

  “Uh.”

  “Yeah. Kind of cool. It’s something new, I have to admit. I only noticed it when we sat down.”

  “You didn’t say anything then.” She was resenting not spotting it herself, to be fair, the club was like old home to me, and everything was new for her.

  “No, I just used it to call the waitress. Works great. Go on, try it.” I was grinning now, and so was Ronnie. She said to Evie, “Hit that call button, will you Evie?”

  Evie did, and our waitress was at the table in about five seconds, pen and pad in hand. She looked inquisitively around the table, for the one that had called.

  Ronnie made a motion with her finger, and asked for a Perrier, and a round for the rest of us as well.

  One again, the waitress responded with “Yah, yah.” Then putting away her pen and pad without ever having used them, she departed as fast as she’d showed up.

  “Well, that seems to work rather efficiently, I have to admit.”

  I nodded back at her. Leaning in on the table, I motioned for the same from the others, which they did.

  “Listen guys, I want to take a short walk in the neighbourhood. Can you cover for me Evie? Therese, is that Okay with you? Ronnie?” Godsen answered just as Evie was agreeing to it by saying, “Sure”.

  “Wait a second. You think that something’s up around here, or what?”

  “It’s the Niederdorf, anything can happen, and if something were to happen tonight, chances are it will happen here, on the Niederdorf. That’s all. Just a look-see. I don’t want to miss my ribs when t
hey’re hot. That only gives me about thirty minutes.”

  She pursed her lips for a second, and I had the oddest flash of a cover of a high fashion magazine.

  “Very well. Fifty minutes. At fifty-one we start looking for you.”

  “Right, I’ll be back by then. You Okay with that Therese?”

  “We will have… umm ‘A Girls Night’, yes, while you are gone.” She was starting to cheer up considerably compared to the way I first knew her only a couple of days ago.

  “Right, then. Be back in a flash.”

  As I got up to leave, Evie had Therese come and sit in my seat, next to her along the wall. I could feel Ronnie’s eyes on me the whole way out. At the front door, they stamped my hand. I just had enough presence of mind to push up my sleeve and get it on my forearm, instead of my hand.

  I stepped out of the door into the night of the Niederdorf. Where would I be if I were Ted, laying low in Zurich. I’ll tell you where. At a chalet in the nearby mountains. Maybe close to an airport, for a quick getaway, but at night, the rules changed. At night, everybody gets lonely. Then your only choice for anonymous company is the Niederdorf. The place everyone goes to party, or hang out, or just relax and let their hair down a while. In the Niederdorf, the only time someone is interested in where you’re from is when you make it obvious you’re not very well travelled. That gives them an opportunity to tell you all about the big old world. The Swiss travel a lot.

  A few minutes down the cobblestones to the right, and across the Way, was a small alley, there were a couple of dozens of these alleys, and each one had their own style and feel. This one had more traditional Swiss restaurants on both sides. The alley rose steeply, being built on a hill, and was fairly long, about one hundred meters. At the top, the alley spilled out into the area surrounding the Niederdorf where the roads were paved again, and the character of the place changed right away, transporting you out of the timelessness of the cobblestone alleys with no vehicles, to a modern European town. The goal I had in mind was past the end of the alley. I came out of the darkness into the glare of a regular halogen street light. All of the colours were washed out after the smoky dimness of the alleys and the Way itself. Even though the Way was lit up like a Christmas tree each night, the lights they used for white were more shifted towards the yellow side of the spectrum, making all you saw just a bit more mood oriented. Harsh white light was only good for seeing in the dark, not for building atmosphere.

  I looked both ways, and headed left. The bar was where I had left it the last time I was here. The American Bar & Grill. It sat kitty-corner from the Elephant and Castle, English Pub. This was known as English Corners by the locals. Most of the clientele were Swiss, of course, but a lot of them weren’t. American and Canadian students attending the University of Zurich, or the University of Geneva as well. Up in Zurich for a couple of days, or even for one night. Planning on driving the three hours, or two and a half, back to Geneva before dawn. The best laid plans, and all that, though. Mostly the designated driver broke down somewhere around midnight. Usually with the help of a young and nubile Swiss person of the opposite sex, or the same sex, with other plans for the driver that fitted more closely with the drivers’ idea of a good time.

  It’s easy to stray from the path of righteousness if you were only vaguely aware of the path to begin with. I started with the English pub.

  As soon as I opened the door it hit me like a blast from my own” university days. The smoke, the babble, the music, loud but still only semi-identifiable from the doorway, and the crush of people. These two bars were packed almost every night. I got a complaint from behind as I hesitated in the doorway, and had to push my way in, muttering ‘excuse me’, and ‘sorry’ every few feet as I stepped on someone’s toes or knocked into them from behind. The place was standing room only, but there were a few spots left at the bar, if you could squeeze through. I didn’t have any problem with that. I got a few nasty looks, but at this time and place, ‘Party’ was the word, and fighting meant immediate barring, and the Police as well. Everything stayed pretty cool in here, that was the attraction.

  I made it up to the bar, and found myself standing between two very attractive young women. Both of them gave me the once over, and the one on my left asked me if she could buy me a drink. British. The one on my right just smiled and waved for the barman. Maybe they were a team.

  The barman came over and as he was walking by me, he stopped and turned, eyes wide, staring right at me. Both of the women caught that, and took a small step sideways. So Big Bob was still running the joint. He was British, sort of. In his heart anyway, but he’d been born in Vancouver. He’d spent eight years living in England and studying there. He liked it so much he picked up about two or three degrees. Mostly useless stuff, like Philosophy, Business Management, in the form of an MBA, and so on. Then he finally had to leave university, or start a new degree, which he didn’t have the energy for anymore. He’d been twenty-nine when he’d started, and thirty-seven when he left. He’d party’d so intensely during the eight years of his education, that he’d become hooked on the lifestyle. The Canadian Embassy people, the ones who worked in the basement, had made sure that he kept his eyes and ears open, and in exchange, he’d been able to afford to have swell parties, with a little left over. So, he moved to Zurich and opened a pub. Natural progression, right?

  I got in the first word.

  “Hi Bob. Yeah, it’s me, but you haven’t seen me, got it?”

  “Sure thing”.

  “Hold it there. Call me anything, but don’t call me late for dinner.”

  “Got it.” There was a big smile on his face, and he topped it off with a knowing wink. The twit.

  “I think these lovely young ladies were about to order. Make mine a Perrier.”

  The young thing on my left was about twenty something. Jeans and a sweater, maybe five foot ten. Short dark hair, and slim. The one on my right was just the opposite, short tan leather skirt and matching jacket. The jacket was waist length, which was only about eight or ten inches longer than her hair. Blonde hair, and blue eyes, with curves to match. As I watched her order for the three of us I pegged her at thirty something. She had a few pounds extra, but they seemed to fall in the right places, enhancing the curves nature had started her out with. This one wasn’t a student, but there was something familiar about her. Then I got it, both of them had similar looks, even though they were like opposite ends of the spectrum. Sisters.

  Bob brought over the beer, a G&T, and my Perrier, declaring it ‘On the house’. The girls were suitably impressed. Bob very rarely gave anything away.

  A moment or two later, I excused myself and headed for the washroom, W/C, which were only a few steps from the kitchen door. Big Bob liked to eat, and he spent almost as much time in the small kitchen as he did behind the bar. I’d seen him slip into the kitchen after bringing the free drinks.

  I stepped inside the doorway slipped to my right, coming up against a preparation counter. Which had a telephone on the wall right above it. Which was where Bob was, on the telephone. It looked like he was on hold, so nobody knew anything yet.

  As soon as I was standing next to him, he slowly took the phone away from his ear, and hung up the receiver. I could see that he was trying hard to come up with a line, so I spared him the trouble.

  “Don’t bother, Bob. I’ll make it worth your while anyway. The one thing I want to know is, who wants to keep track of me?” I peeled two five hundred franc notes from my special bundle, sliding it across the counter to him. He looked a bit nervous for someone who could bench press three hundred and fifty pounds. Bob was one of the few people I’d ever known that I had to look up at to go eye-to-eye. Not much, mind you, but just enough to remind me that he was about two inches taller than me, and he outweighed me by about seventy, maybe eighty pounds.

  Both he and I knew that made no difference to me whatsoever. He was only involved in the game as a pair of eyes and ears, and that had been a long while ago.


  I, on the other hand, was a true lunatic, according to the files that didn’t exist, and as such was to be dealt with carefully. Like you would handle old dynamite that had been sweating drops of nitro glycerin for a few years. Very, very carefully, and only if you couldn’t find some other idiot to do it for you.

  “Bob, whatever you’ve been told, it isn’t true. There are some strange things going on, of that, there is no doubt. But this time there’s a definitive line between the black hats and the white hats. I always thought your hat was white, with occasional smudges of grey that had to be cleaned up now and again. You managed to do that quite well. Tonight, I don’t know where you stand, because I haven’t seen you wearing your hat for years, but if I were to guess, I’d say that you just got some dirt on it.

  Help yourself, quickly now. Who had you on hold, when did they contact you, and was there any explanation given?”

  “Um, I uh… oh, shit!” Bob let out a big sigh. Good thing the three little pigs hadn’t built their first house in his kitchen, because that would have blown it down easily. “Terry called early this afternoon. Terry Kincaid, you know?”

  “I know.” He was Mark’s number one tough guy, or he used to be. Terry wasn’t much of a talker. Stalking was more up his alley. Now why would Mark want to know if I showed up at Bob’s joint? Or did Mark want to know at all? If he did, why set Terry Kincaid on us? Questions, questions. “Just tell me what he said, verbatim. You still speak Latin, don’t you?” My jab at his years of ‘study’ in England slipped off of him easily.

  He gave me a wry look. “Yeah, but I’m the only one I know who can have a fluent conversation with me.” I didn’t have any more time to waste, so I got down to it.

  “I’m waiting.” I kept my arms loose at my sides, and the leather jacket was unzipped. I think I was starting to make Bob nervous, and that bothered me a lot. Bob and I had always been Okay with each other, and that hadn’t changed the last time I saw him. Time has a way of turning on the old ‘erosion factor’ sometimes though. Maybe that’s all it was.