by Phil Swann
J.P. didn’t push. She knew better. She smiled and nodded.
“Oh, hell. I’ll be all right, J.P., just my time of the month.”
And the moment was gone.
“Tell you what,” David said, sitting up in his seat. “Why don’t you jump off the next exit, and I’ll get us a bottle. We’ll go to my place and watch something old and black and white and get drunk.”
“Not me. It’s Thursday, and I still have a job.”
“Come on. So what if a bar manager or worthless musician doesn’t reach you by ten, the world won’t end.”
“Sorry, luv. Meeting at nine a.m. with an entertainment buyer from South Pacific Cruises. And, I need the booking. Hey, you need me to get that booking. I’m running out of places on dry land that will put up with you.”
“All right. But would you at least pull over and let me get a bottle and pack of smokes for myself?”
J.P. exited at Burbank Boulevard and pulled into a liquor store located at the corner of a small strip mall.
“Sure you don’t want anything?” David asked, getting out of the car.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Then can you float me a twenty?”
J.P. shook her head. She opened her purse and handed David the money. “You now owe me seven hundred and seventy dollars.”
∙•∙
J.P. watched as David trotted into the liquor store. She loved him. She knew it. She wondered if he knew it—probably not. She remembered that night they slept together the first time. He was wrong, she wasn’t drunk. She pretended to be, of course. That somehow made it easier the next day. It allowed them the license to laugh about it. She wondered how they might have turned out had she not used the ruse. Would they have become more than just friends? And what was so special about David Webber anyway?
Over the years she’d known a lot of talented men. Many better looking and all with considerably better personalities than David Webber. But from the moment he walked into her office that day—good lord, was it really ten years ago—there was a connection. He was glib, sarcastic, and sometimes downright rude. But underneath, there was a soul that exploded with sensitivity and passion. It sometimes showed itself in moments of weakness, other times in moments of intoxication. But always when he played. Good lord, could he play. She had lost count of the many times she had had to say to an irate club manager, “I know he’s a pain in the ass and totally lacking in any social skills, but listen to him play.” In her seventeen years in the business, David Webber was quite simply the best she’d ever heard.
∙•∙
David took his time scanning the various spirits, his main concern being which gave him the most alcohol bang-for-his-buck. He decided on a bottle of Black Velvet and two packs of generic brand cigarettes. Beside the counter was a lone copy of the early edition of the Los Angeles Times. As David reached over to pick up the paper, another customer behind him reached for the same one.
David turned around.
“It’s yours,” the giant man in a dark tailored suit said with a raspy voice.
“No, go ahead and take it," David said, handing the paper to the man. "Nothing in there I really care about anyway.”
“Thanks.” The man threw some change on the counter, nodded to David, and left.
David was getting back into J.P.’s Benz, when he glanced across the parking lot and saw the man in the suit getting into the passenger side of a green sedan.
“It’s about time.”
David didn't reply.
J.P. looked in the direction David was staring. “Somebody you know?”
Still no reply.
“David,” J.P. said.
“What…sorry…no it’s nothing, just…”
“Just what?”
“What did you say that guy—what was his name—Harshberger…?”
“Harshbarger.”
“Yeah, right Harshbarger. What did you say he did back in Missouri?”
“I didn’t. But Officer Dreamboat told me he owned some sort of machine parts company, or something like that. Why?”
David dropped his head. “Oh God.”
“What in the world is wrong now?”
“Just get me the hell home,” David mumbled. “And take the surface streets.”
J.P. headed east on Burbank Boulevard through Van Nuys. David remained hunched in his seat, periodically rising up for a quick look out the rear window.
“You mind telling me what is going on?”
“That green car, a Taurus, I think…the one at the liquor store that guy got in. I saw it in front of the police station.”
J.P. let out a held breath and laughed. “Oh lord, David, you must be kidding? You know how many green Tauruses there are in Los Angeles?”
David didn’t smile. “Yeah, a lot. But not all of them are following us.”
J.P.’s smile vanished. She turned to look out the back.
“Don’t do that,” David ordered. “Just keep driving. When we get to my apartment, drive past it and pull over down the street. Don’t park in front.”
“David, what’s going on?”
“A machine parts company, that’s what.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m from the Midwest too, J.P.”
“What…does—”
“I know how guys like Harshbarger operate. When I was a growing up, there was a kid down the corner from where I lived. His old man owned a trucking company, among a few more lucrative and less legal enterprises. One year this kid doesn’t make the junior high basketball team. So his old man calls up the coach and tells him that he must have made a mistake. The coach said he hadn’t. The guy said, think about it again. The coach didn’t. The coach was rushed to the hospital that night with a broken arm, a broken nose, and severe internal bleeding. He was out the rest of the year. His kid, by the way, was on the basketball team the next day. No, Harshbarger’s not going to press charges. He’s just going to send his bent-noses to get justice.”
“Are you sure? We need to call the police.” J.P. reached for her cell phone.
“No,” David replied. “That would just make it worse.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. My apartment’s coming up. Just pull over down the street.”
J.P. pulled over a block past David’s apartment building. She turned off the headlights, and both scrunched down in their seats. A late model pick-up truck, a city bus, and the green sedan whizzed by, the green sedan not so much as flashing its brake lights.
“Then again, I guess I could be wrong.”
“Damn it, Webber, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I really thought that car was following us. It was at the police station—”
“David, get some bloody help. Now we can add paranoia to your list of neuroses.”
David rubbed his eyes and fell back in his seat. J.P. turned on the headlights and backed up to David’s apartment building. “Go get some sleep, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
David opened the door but stopped before he got out. “I’m sorry, J.P., for everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
J.P.'s lips turned up slightly. “I don’t either, luv.”
David leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
Spanish in style with chipped paint and palm trees, the four-story apartment complex looked no different than hundreds of others in the Valley. David opened the security gate and walked to the elevators located across the modest courtyard. He heard meowing from the other side of his door the instant he inserted the key into the lock.
“What’s happening, Ravel? Have a good night?” David said as the cat rubbed against his leg. “Mine? Buddy, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He whipped off his tux jacket, tossed it across a dining room chair, and picked up the TV remote sitting on the back of a tan couch. He pulled his whiskey and cigarettes from the bag, grabbed a glass with ice from the kitchen, and came back into his ti
ny living room. He set the bottle on the coffee table, using a celebrity magazine as a coaster, lit a cigarette, and fell onto the couch with an audible ugh! The feline jumped onto David’s lap as he cracked the seal and poured himself three fingers worth. He took a gulp and began stroking Ravel's head, curiously watching as his left hand slid off the cat's back. He paused and tentatively made a fist. He threw back another gulp and then reopened his hand again. “No," David whispered, staring at his hand and repeating the motion. "It just wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, Ravee.”
∙•∙
The man in the passenger seat dialed a number on the cell phone. “It’s me.” He listened. “No sir, not yet.” He listened again. “Yeah, we’re out front, we have a full view." Silence once more. "Got it." The man placed the phone inside his suit jacket. “I'm to stay here. You go back to the hotel.”
The driver nodded and started the car as the man in the tailored suit got out of the green sedan.
Chapter Three
The man in the royal blue satin robe who stood on the balcony looking over the Upper East Side of Central Park was the picture of elegance. His six-feet-one-inch frame was lean and strong. His features were sharp and defined. His hair gleamed dark and wavy, teeth sparkled white, and his skin shone a smooth golden brown. The man was beautiful, and he carried himself with an air of knowing it.
He pushed the Off button on the phone and slowly sipped the amber liqueur from the crystal snifter he held between his perfectly manicured fingers.
“Anything?” asked a voice from the living room.
“No.”
“Maybe we’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. Ever think of that?" the man in the black leather jacket said in rough Brooklynese.
“No,” was the cold reply.
“Well, maybe you oughta.”
Anthony Depriest walked from the balcony into the plush pastel-colored living room without comment.
“Yo, maestro. You hearing me?”
“Keep your voice down, you idiot,” Depriest ordered in a sharp half-whisper. “My wife is sleeping.”
“Hey.” The barrel-chested Italian lunged to the edge of the couch. “You gonna have more problems than me waking up the missus if you call me an idiot again. I don’t give a fuck if you are family.”
Depriest’s face contorted. “Please, don’t remind me. God, I can’t believe you and I are from the same gene pool.”
“Yeah, well we are, Mister Hoity-toity, and don’t forget it. Under those pretty little jammies, you just a dumb Flatbush wop like me.”
“I don’t think so, James,” Depriest replied.
“You are too, and you oughta be proud of it. And the name's Jimmy. You know I don’t go by no fairy name like James. Pop made you what you are, don’t forget it.”
“I made me what I am, my talent and genius,” Depriest said. “I would have become what I am with or without my uncle.”
“Yeah right,” Jimmy laughed. “Well, all’s I got to say, Mister Genius, is the family’s got a lot riding on this, and Pop’s not gonna like it if it gets fucked up because of you.”
Depriest took another drink and leered at his cousin through his glass. Jimmy was right—he better not fuck this up.
Jimmy went on. “Now, you look. I gotta report to Pop in the morning about how things are going, and it would be in your best interest if I got something good to say.”
“Tell him everything is proceeding as planned.”
“What plan? All we seem to be doing is chasing some old man around. Now two of my best are in Cali-fuckin’-fornia. I say just give Leo and Sal fifteen minutes with the old fart, and he'll be forever working for us.”
The crystal rattled as Depriest slammed his glass onto the silver tray beside the etched brandy decanter. “Me, James. Working for me. And you'd be wise to remember for whom you're working. Must I remind you of our little arrangement? As far as not giving a fuck who is family or not, how do you think your old man would react if he learned of your little shenanigans with the Goudio woman, hmmm? Not well, I imagine. Besides, I’m paying you twice what your illustrious father is, aren’t I?"
Jimmy cowered into the sofa saying nothing.
"Leo and Sal do not touch the old man, is that clear? I’ve told you a thousand times, the old man is the key. All we need to do is let him lead us to it." Depriest softened his tone. "I know him, Jimmy. He's as methodical as they come. He doesn't take a crap unless it's for two good reasons.”
“Yeah, but California?”
“Yes. California makes the most sense out of everything he’s done thus far.”
“Because of that piano player?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes. Because of that piano player.”
“So, if this piano player guy is so important, why don’t we just get him and put the screws to him ourselves?”
“Because I wouldn't know what to ask him, but I’m quite sure the good professor does. Besides, he’d rather die a slow and painful death than assist me in any way.”
“Why? You know this guy?”
“Oh, yes, I know him. And he knows me.” Depriest strolled to the open sliding glass door, looked out across the Manhattan skyline, and smiled. “He knows me, all right. I’m the man who destroyed David Webber's life.”
Chapter Four
The shrill ringing was like an ice pick puncturing David’s eardrum. Slowly, and painfully, he raised his head from the couch and attempted a sitting position. After several unsuccessful tries, he surrendered by rolling off the couch and onto the floor. One knee to one knee, one foot to one foot, David stood. Once erect, he saw the problem. His shirt was sopping wet and twisted around his torso in such a way it was restricting the movement of his arms. He had one shoe still on, and his cummerbund had crept its way up around his chest—he had passed out in his clothes. “Jesus Christ,” he moaned, rubbing the crust away from the corners of his mouth. He looked around the room and noticed the ringing had stopped. He saw the television was still on and blaring out testimonials from people singing the praises of a new and revolutionary spot remover. An eight hundred number was pasted at the bottom of the screen. No sooner had David decided the ringing had come from the television than it began again. From the living room, he could see the clock hanging in the kitchen. Three fifty-eight a.m. “Who in the hell?” He picked up the phone from the coffee table. “Yeah?” he answered with a rasp.
The voice on the other end was weak and cracked. Between David’s alcohol delirium and the caller’s inaudible tone, it was impossible to make out what the caller was saying. He was about to hang up when the voice suddenly became familiar.
“Davey, Davey.”
David's chest tightened—his breath got short.
“Davey, it’s me."
A wave passed through his body.
“Davey, are you there?"
David swallowed hard. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Hello, Davey,” the elderly voice said.
David couldn’t reply
"Davey, are you there?"
"Hello, Professor,” David said, trying to keep the shake out his voice.
"Hello, Davey."
David took a breath and tried to sound casual. “Henry, I can’t believe—”
“Yes, I know, it’s been too long since we’ve spoken.”
“Too long?" David said with a nervous laugh. "Try a lifetime or two.”
“Yes, it has.” There was a long pause before the man spoke again. “I’m sorry, Davey, I shouldn’t have called, but—”
“No,” David interrupted, “please, Henry, don’t hang up.”
“I’m not hanging up, Davey. But I realize this intrusion—”
"No, Professor, please—” David closed his eyes. "I want to talk to you—so badly I want to…need to talk to you."
"Davey, I know we have a lot to—”
David jumped on the man’s words. “There's so much I need to say. I just…” His thoughts were all over the place; he couldn’t focus. Was he dreaming? He wasn�
��t sure. “I don't know where to begin, and…I'm still not quite awake. You must have forgotten about the time change. It’s the middle of the night here.”
“I did not forget. I’m in Los Angeles. My apologies for the hour. I need—”
“Los Angeles?" David said, "Professor, why are—”
“Davey, please,” Henry interrupted. “We will reunion at another time. At this moment though, you must listen to me very carefully, please.”
“Sure, but Henry, why—”
“Damn it, Davey, please.”
David was stunned. The Professor Henry Shoewalter he remembered never used profanity. “Okay, Henry, I’m listening.”
David heard a strained sigh on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry too, Davey,” the old man said, lowering his voice. “I know you and I have much to talk about. I realize that after the long silence between us, me calling you now from out of the blue must seem strange. But Davey, right now I must ask we save what needs to be said between us for another time.”
“I don’t understand, Professor, but whatever you say.”
“Thank you, Davey.” The old man sighed again. “I have a question for you. Do you remember the gift I gave you at the conservatory?”
“The gift?”
“Yes, the gift. The one I gave you from the master."
The combination of David’s half-drunk-half-hung-over state, the hour, and the surprise of hearing from the most important person in his life still had him reeling. “The master? The gift, the gift, oh you mean the—”
“Yes. Do you still have it?”
“Of course, Henry. It’s just about the only thing from my past I’ve held onto.” David’s hand shook as he tried lighting a cigarette.
“Good. Davey, listen to me. I need you to bring it to me. I promise I’ll give it back, but it’s very important that I borrow it for a while. There are also some questions I need to ask you.”
“What?”
“Not over the telephone. I’ll ask you when I see you. Where can we meet?”
David sat down on the couch. “Anywhere you want, Henry. If you have a car, you could come over here.”