by Frank Rich
* * *
An hour later we sat in the cavernous practice room of the band's communal household in Denver's warehouse district, smoking cigarettes and drinking homemade dandelion wine.
"So what about this big gig you were talking about?" Kerry said, a little drunk.
"Let me ask a question first," I said, standing up. "What is the purpose of your band?"
Kerry looked confused. "To, uh, play music."
I smiled. "Why do you play music?"
"To deliver a message," Tomas, the bassist, said around a cigarette.
"And what message is that?" I asked.
"Nonconformity," Stevo, the drummer, said.
"Hate," said Mack, the guitar player.
"Rebellion," Tomas offered.
"Revolution," Kerry finished with a grin.
"Sweet revolution, yeah!" George echoed. "Can I have some more wine?"
"Is it working?" I asked.
Kerry frowned. "Is what working?"
"The revolution."
"The people don't listen to our message." He exonerated himself with a shrug. "They're too scared to act."
"I agree," I said, walking to the window. It offered a lovely view of an alley and the Cadillac. "Maybe it's time to start acting yourselves."
They all looked up. "What do you mean?" Mack asked.
I faced them. "I mean your responsibility doesn't end with the delivery of the message. If you really believe in what you're preaching, you have to be willing to take action."
"Listen to him," George said, nodding gravely.
"You want us to start having a revolution without the people?" Kerry said.
"The masses in Denver aren't going to rise up unless you set an example," I said. "Playing songs at rallies isn't enough. As things are, you're serving Remi's purpose more than your own."
"No way," Kerry said angrily. "We're a major thorn in his side. He hates our guts."
"Don't you think he would have rounded you up a long time ago it that were true? He's using you as a release valve on the pressure cooker that is Denver. He lets the dissatisfied elements go to your rallies and think something's being done, when in reality nothing is happening. It's an obvious truth that Remi's been pimping you like a bawdy harlot, and it's high time to take solid and ruthless action."
Monique made a face. "There's that ugly word again."
"Right on, Jake!" George railed. "Ruthless action, baby. That's where we're at. Where's that goddamn bottle?"
The band exchanged glances. They seemed upset at being called bawdy whores, but I wasn't sure if their anger was directed at Remi or myself.
Kerry said, "But we're a band, not professional revolutionaries."
"There's no such thing as a professional revolutionary," George said, rising. "It's not a career choice, it's an ideal. Revolutionary heroes are common people emboldened by a noble cause, individuals angered by the sight of chains and brave enough to smash them."
I nodded. "Well said."
"We just turn into revolutionaries overnight?" Stevo said.
"Not exactly," I said. "I'll turn you into revolutionaries. I'll teach you."
"You some kind of teacher?" Kerry asked.
"No," George said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Jake here is a revolutionary hero. An exception to the rule, Jake was born and bred to the calling like a bird dog."
They sat in silence. Finally Kerry spoke. "We need time to skull this over."
"Take all the time you need." I finished my wine and went to the door. "We'll be back tomorrow."
I steered the Caddy out of the alley and headed south down Wazee. "Where you been sleeping, George?"
"The bosom of the proletariat," George said from the backseat.
"Where's that?" Monique asked.
"Wherever he wakes up," I explained. "You want to stay with us?"
"Absolutely. I think it essential we keep the great minds of the revolution at close quarters."
"I have your money," Marlene said, reaching in her purse.
"No, no," George said, holding up his hands. "That is not my money, it is the revolutionary war chest. You can serve as our trusted and honest treasurer." He dug around in his duffel, and I figured he was too close to a squeeze run to trust himself. He pulled a paperback out of his bag and handed it to me.
The title was Coup D'état: A Practical Guide. If I remembered right, the author Brian Black was a rabid anarchist rabble-rouser responsible for much of the chaos of the early twenty-first century.
"Where'd you get this?" I asked.
"At the flea market in Kansas. I suggest you read it at once."
"Couldn't hurt," I said, putting the book inside my jacket. "I think we swayed the band."
"What swayed you?" George asked.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"I thought you didn't care about the revolution."
"I don't. I just can't think of anything better to do."
"Don't listen to him." Monique laughed. "He's trying to bribe his way into Heaven by killing those he imagines to be evil."
"He's probably serious," George said.
"I'm very serious," I confirmed. "What do my motives matter anyway? It all ends up the same. I said I'd do it and I'm gonna do it."
"You sure have changed," George said. "I remember when you first became a bogeyman. You were going to clean up the whole corrupt world with nothing more than strong moral convictions and a lot of ammo."
"I wised up. Holding on to your ideals is a dangerous balancing act. You can stay on top of your convictions only so long before you slip and fall down into the grime with the rest."
George nodded. "I know about that. What's your plan with the band?"
"If they agree, I'm going to train them."
"To be killers," Monique said sarcastically.
"To be revolutionaries," I corrected.
"What then?" George asked.
I pulled into Dante's parking lot. "I don't know. What I need now is firepower and soldiers. A ruthless man with both of those always has a future. I'll make it up as I go along."
Monique scowled. "So it's time to get ruthless again?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Tell me, Jake, just how much more ruthless can you get before you stop being human?"
I parked and killed the engine. "I let my humanity go a long time ago. I found out it was just dead weight." I stared into her angry eyes. "I live outside the circle now."
"Oh yeah? How does it feel out there?"
I opened the door and stepped outside. I looked at the slate gray sky, the bare trees, at the fallen leaves waiting for the first snow to entomb them. "It's a little cold," I replied, "but I've gotten used to it. It's the cold that keeps me alive "
15
We were back in the practice room at nine in the morning. George and I stood in front of them, arms folded.
Kerry stood up hesitantly, glancing at his band mates sitting around him. "We took a vote."
"And?"
He smiled. "We're in."
"Great. What was the count?"
"Three for, one against."
I nodded. "Okay. Glad to have you aboard, you won't regret it. Now, first things first. Where are your weapons?"
"Weapons?" Kerry asked.
"Yeah, your rifles."
"Rifles?"
"Yeah, your firearms, your goddamn hookahs, for crissakes."
"We don't have any."
I stared at him, thinking he was pulling my leg. "What? What kind of band doesn't have weapons?"
"We don't have permits."
"What the hell do you need permits for?"
Monique spoke up. "Remi has very strict firearm policies. If you're caught with an unlicensed gun, it's execution on the spot."
"What the hell is wrong with this town? How can you be social commentators without weapons to back up your words?" I started pacing the floor. "We'll have to buy some. Lucky we have a war chest. Where's the nearest gun market?"
They looked
at each other, dumbfounded.
"Don't tell me. Those are illegal, too."
Kerry nodded. "Arms are very hard to get in Denver."
"What about the black market?" I asked.
"Yeah, you can probably get some that way," Kerry said. "Through the crime lords. But it'd be very expensive."
"Well, at least there are some criminals around. How expensive?"
He shrugged. "I never asked."
"Which crime lord should I talk to?"
"Monkey," Kerry said. He looked around the group. "Monkey," they echoed, nodding solemnly.
"Take me to him."
We stopped at a thrift store on the way. Monique drove, allowing George and I the opportunity to change our clothes en route.
"What's with the baggy suits?" she asked.
I tightened my tie. "Image. You have to look the part."
"What part is that?"
"Gangsters."
"I think you're overdoing it."
"That's the idea. When dealing with stereotypes, the more absurd the getup, the more believable the character."
Monique pulled to the curb, and Kerry pointed across the street.
Apparently Toley "the Monkey" Martin operated out of the front of the Lucky Seven Betting Parlor on the corner of Colfax and Vine. I could tell by the peeling paint and cracked windows he ran a real class act.
George and I climbed out and admired each other's getup. George wore a baggy black-and-white pinstriped number with an extrawide white linen tie and a black wide-brimmed derby. I'd chosen a dark gray gambler's suit with black shirt and crimson tie capped off by a charcoal gray fedora.
"Sharp," George commented.
"And we know it." I pulled the fedora low over my eyes. "Ready, Shiny?"
George tilted his derby to a jaunty angle and covered his eyes with narrow low-rider shades. "Ready, boss. We got a plan?"
"Yeah, we got a plan. We gonna rattle da Monkey's cage. Play along."
"Right, boss."
We crossed the street with a bounce in our steps, admiring the shine of our black wingtips.
The second-rate muscle around the receptionist's desk didn't improve my image of the Monkey's act. The pair had the seedy look of out-of-work lounge bouncers.
"Betting's closed today," a tall reedy man said without looking up from his paper.
I sat on the front edge of the metal desk and lit a vitacig. "We ain't here to rail no ponies, chump. We're here to see da Monkey, see?"
The thin man's fat friend put down his tofu sandwich and looked around. "See what?"
I showed him an ugly face then looked to George. "These farm boys don't speak the lingo."
"Maybe they're giving us the old runaround, boss," George drawled. "Think I should heat 'em up a little?"
"Give 'em a chance," I said. "So you're giving us the old runaround, is that the way it is?"
The narrow one looked up from his paper. "Hey, Mikey. Check out the refugees from the costume ball."
I glared at him. "How'd you like I rip out your liver, put it between two pieces of rye with some pickle and mayo and have it for lunch?"
The two looked at each other, bewildered. "What're you talking about?" the thin man said.
"I'm talking about my appointment to see your boss, chump. Monkey ain't gonna like it if you keep me waiting, see?"
"I don't see nothin'," the fat one said.
I put out my vitacig in his tofu. "See that?"
"Hey!" he said, half rising. "What's the idea?"
I leaned across the desk and sat him back down with a shove. "Relax, ace. The idea is you start seeing things my way, or my pal Shiny here's gonna give you a free ventilation job."
George scowled. "Think I should ventilate 'em, boss?"
"Give 'em a chance." I blew smoke in their faces. "You gonna get da Monk or what?"
The tall thin one frowned and pushed a button on an intercom. "There's a coupla guys here to see you, boss."
"Who are they?" a static-riddled voice shot back.
"Tell him our names ain't important," I said.
"They say their names ain't important."
"You tell them I said for them to go fuck themselves," came the reply.
"Cover 'em, Shiny," I said. George came out with a pistol, and the two goons stared at it.
"Hands up, chumps," George said.
"You got a permit for that?" the fat one said, raising his hands.
"No, but I got some bullets."
I walked to the wooden door behind the desk. I drove a heel above the knob, and when it flew open with a bang, I strolled in as if I had a written invitation.
"Hey!" a short man said from behind his desk. "You didn't have to break the goddamn door, for crissakes."
I looked the Monkey over. He might have got his name from his short, long-armed torso or maybe it was all the hair on him. I wasn't interested enough to ask. I was there for the merchandise.
"I didn't like the view from out there," I said. "So I thought I'd see what it was like from in here."
"What?" he said, opening a drawer.
I showed him the open end of the gyra. "Put the hookah away, Monkey. We don't need no guns to talk."
He slowly took his hand from the drawer. "Who're you? I've SPF protection, you know."
"Like I said before, it don't matter who I am. I come to make a deal."
He threw his arms in the air. "You kick in my door, point a gun at me, God knows what you did with my good-for-nothing bodyguards. Then you tell me you wanna make a deal?" He dropped his hands. "What kinda deal?"
I sat on the edge of his desk, the pistol resting on my thigh. "We need some barrels."
"Barrels of what?"
"The kind that bullets come out of."
"Guns?"
"Yeah, guns."
"What kinda guns?"
"Long ones. Assault rifles, subguns. Nothin' made before the turn of the century."
He entwined his fingers behind his head. "You're talking about a very dangerous proposition, pal. Gunrunning is a death crime. I don't even know who you are, for crissakes."
"I wanna keep it that way. I need a quantity of ten with two thousand rounds per weapon."
He thought about it. "I got ten M-16Als I might could get ya with five hundred bullets per."
"A1s? That's pre-eighties, old iron."
He shrugged. "They're gold around here."
"How much?"
"Two thousand. Apiece."
I laughed. "You don't understand the proposition, Monkey. I'm not only going to take some dangerous contraband off your hands, I'm gonna pay you to do it. You get two hundred per, if they're good."
"That wouldn't leave me with much profit." He toyed with a bronze letter opener shaped as a raven. "I might let them go for eighteen hundred apiece."
"You're still way out of my ballpark, Monk. Three hundred per is the absolute ceiling for me."
"I could get three thousand apiece for them over in Five Points." He shook his head and smiled. "But I like your style. For you, I could go sixteen hundred each. And that's as low as I go."
"I could tell Remi you're hawking guns."
He shrugged. "It'd be your word against mine. My prices may seem a little high, but when you got the market cornered that's the way things work."
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll give you four apiece and a cut of the action."
"What action?"
I paused for effect. "We're gonna use the tubes to take out a competitor of yours."
"Who?"
"C'mon, for crissakes," I said, waving a hand. "Don't play wise with me. Who's the main thorn in your side, who's always suckin' the gravy right off your table?"
"You're gonna hit that bastard Mooch?"
"That's right," I said, speaking fast, trying not to give him time to think. "Mooch's days of moochin' are over."
"Why you gonna hit Mooch?"
I shrugged. "I'd guess my employers have a beef with him. I don't ask questions, I just do my job."
"You're a pro hitter, huh?"
I shrugged again. "Gotta make a livin' somehow. My bosses said they don't care what happens to Mooch's action afterwards, so I was thinkin' about running it myself. Give me a deal on the guns, I'll let you have a piece of the pie."
His eyes sparked with interest. "A piece. How big a piece?"
"I was thinking a quarter share."
"A quarter? Half seems more fair."
"I don't figure half."
"C'mon," he said a little too eagerly. "I know the layout here in Denver, I got the SPF protection."
I pretended to think about it. "Okay, half."
He broke into a fat smile. "Great, great. Half. Okay, after you hit him we'd have to move fast, before those other weasels and vultures can come in and rip at the carcass. Tell you what, I'll give you the rifles at four apiece with a thousand rounds per if you let me have the betting and pimping action, leaving you the protection and narco rackets."
I shook my head slowly. "I don't know about that. Most of Mooch's flow comes from the ponies and the whores. You're gonna have to give me a better deal on the rifles."
"Okay, okay, three hundred each. You get the guns, and I get the betting and the girls."
"Two hundred and it's a deal."
He studied me for a moment, and I could almost hear the furious clicking of the calculator in his head. "All right, we got a deal."
I holstered my pistol and shook his hand. "When can we pick them up?"
"When do you need them?"
"Now. The sooner we get them, the sooner Mooch takes a fall."
"Okay." He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me. "This is the address of a warehouse across the river. Be at the front in an hour with the plastic."
"We'll be there."
I started for the door.
"Hold on," he said. I looked back at him. His instincts weren't all bad. A little suspicion had mixed in with the greed. "Why do you need so many guns just to pop Mooch?"
"Because," I said, "me and my boys aren't just touchin' Mooch, we're liquidating his entire staff."
"Not the girls, too, for crissakes?"
"You crazy? Just his muscle."
"When?"
"Next week sometime. When the moment is right." I smiled. "Don't worry, Monk. You'll be the first to know."
Greed crept back and suspicion faded. "Okay. Half."