by Robert Greer
More than a few Five Points locals claimed that Rosie Weeks’s now successful business had flourished on the strength of his wife Etta Lee’s brains and Roosevelt’s back. In truth, they’d contributed equally to that success. Like CJ, Rosie had been a car lover all his life. But while CJ had always simply admired automotive beauty, engineering, and style, Rosie did him one better: he understood what made cars run.
Only CJ, Ike, and Willis Sundee were allowed to call Rosie “Red,” a nickname he’d earned in high school because he liked his hamburgers on the raw side of rare.
Like Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen, Rosie’s Garage, a well-established Five Points gathering place, had become much more. The gigantic garage’s back storage room, known locally as “the den,” was a place where you could gamble, play the numbers, buy liquor on Sundays, or if you had a mind to, just hang around all day and shoot the breeze. Rosie didn’t mind folks loitering, especially since those same folks and their cars accounted for a significant portion of his business, but if he caught people cursing in front of a female customer, or if a back-room poker game turned sour and ended up in a fight, he sent everyone packing. No one, including Denver’s black politicians or the cops, ever made mention of what everyone knew went on in Rosie’s back room, especially since both groups were being paid a hefty monthly sum to look the other way.
Rosie was busy hand-sprinkling the concrete floor of one of the garage’s service bays with an oil absorbent compound from a five-gallon pail when CJ walked in. When Rosie glanced up from what he was doing, a genuine smile of long-term friendship spread across his face. “Ain’t seen you all week, CJ. Where the hell you been?”
“Working,” said CJ, walking over and giving Rosie a fist bump.
“Sure hope you got a thick wad of green to show for it.”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Problem is, I may need a little help.”
Rosie set his pail down. “Don’t like the way you said that word, help, CJ. Like the word somehow needed me to prop it up.”
“It’s light work, Red,” CJ said, his tone reassuring. “If it even comes to that.”
Rosie shook his head, slowly at first, then a little faster. “You know Etta Lee don’t like me helpin’ you with your jobs, CJ. Every time I do, a bucket of trouble always seems to come my way.”
Recalling the time Rosie had helped him bring down a car chop ring only to end up with a broken nose and a couple less teeth, CJ said, “No chop shops involved here, Red. I’m just trying to keep somebody from putting the squeeze on Willis Sundee. Having you as backup would sure be nice.”
“Which means you need muscle. Which means you’ve more than likely already pissed somebody off.”
“Let’s just say that a certain somebody and I don’t see eye to eye. I talked to Willis on the phone about that fact a few minutes before I headed over here. The man squeezing Willis’s nuts has Willis pretty upset. He’s a local restaurant produce and meat supplier who doesn’t like the fact that I paid him a visit on Willis’s behalf.”
“Sounds sorta angry.”
“No more angry than Willis is paying me to be. Bottom line’s this, Red. I really don’t need you to do much of anything but keep an eye on Mae’s for me for the next couple of nights.”
“How come you can’t keep an eye out?”
“Because I’ve gotta help Ike with office paperwork tonight, and tomorrow night I’m taking Mavis to the symphony.”
“Etta Lee’ll have my head, she finds out.”
“It’s important, Red. Wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”
Rosie frowned, and kicked a dollop of oil-soaked compound off the toe of a work boot. “Don’t like the idea of anyone puttin’ the squeeze on Willis, but maybe you should just call the cops.”
“And wait for Lady Justice to show up? Rosie, come on. We’ll all be old and gray by then. Besides, the guy threatening Willis is more than likely in bed with the cops. Willis says he’s threatened a half-dozen other restaurant owners, as well, telling them to get in line with his new fee schedule or else. And you know what? There hasn’t been so much as a peep or finger-lift out of the cops to help. Come on, Red. It’s only for two nights.”
“And all you want me to do is keep an eye on Mae’s?”
“That’s all. A little surveillance from when they close until they open back up at six. Hell, you’ll be right here at the den and just up the street for most of that time. I need you to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Strange cars, people moving in and out of the area who look like they don’t belong, any activity in the alley behind Mae’s, that kind of stuff. Like I said, light work. You in?”
Rosie offered a reluctant “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be wearing a pager. I’ll call you later with the number. Just page me if something looks troublesome.”
Looking surprised, Rosie said, “First you’re off to the symphony and next you’re wearin’ one of them doctor’s pagers. What’s up with you, man? You lookin’ to switch from bein’ a bail bondsman to an MD?”
“Nope. I’m looking at taking Mavis to the symphony, that’s all. Nailed the date with her down a little after I talked with Willis.”
“I’ll be damned. Sure hope you know what you’re doin’. You know how protective Willis is of his little girl.”
“She’s a woman now, Rosie. Besides, it’s just two friends out enjoying a little music for the evening,” CJ said, feeling a sudden twinge of guilt.
“Hope you got somethin’ appropriate to wear, Mr. Highbrow. Somehow I’m thinkin’ your Stetson and riverboat gambler’s vest won’t fit in.”
“I’m covered, bought a new sport coat just today.”
“Roll over, Beethoven,” Rosie said, smiling.
Meeting Rosie’s smile with one of his own, CJ winked and said, “Absolutely.”
Chapter 14
Without the least bit of hesitation, Mavis had said yes to CJ’s invitation to go to the symphony a few hours earlier. Now, as she and longtime friend and sounding board Odetta Jefferson, lead waitress at Mae’s, closed up the restaurant for the night, Mavis was having second thoughts. Headed toward the rear of the restaurant with a dozen salt and pepper shakers on a serving tray, Mavis brushed past Odetta and sighed.
“Awfully heavy-soundin’ bit of air you’re gettin’ rid of, girl. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just found out you’d put on ten extra pounds,” the perpetually dieting head waitress said.
“Just wondering if I did the right thing, Odetta. That’s all.”
“Hell’s britches, girl. You’ve been waitin’ for CJ to ask you out officially like this since you were in your teens. Now he goes and asks you—and out on one of them classy kinda dates, no less—and you get the willies. I’d think you’d be feelin’ like you just struck gold. I know I would.”
“I’m just a little apprehensive, I guess.”
“About what? Not knowin’ when to clap?”
“No. What I’m worried about is the six years of difference in our ages, and the all-too-often opposite way we view the world, and whether our uneven serrated edges actually match up.”
“You’re bein’ real kind to CJ and extra hard on yourself. Everybody knows you ain’t got an unpolished edge to you. Now, CJ, he’s another matter. But then again, he wasn’t raised as comfortable as you, and you never did no two tours of duty in Vietnam. Don’t matter, really. The two of you’ve got real good reasons for bein’ who you are. What matters is the man’s good-lookin’, steady workin’, loyal to his friends and family, and most of all, he ain’t got no jealous girlfriends out there wantin’ to scratch your eyes out. What else could you want?”
“I don’t know, Odetta. Anyway, it’s just a date.”
“Don’t be anywayin’ it with me, Mavis Sundee. Spit your problem on out.”
Mavis took a deep, reflective breath. “Do you know what they said about CJ right after he came back from Vietnam?”
Odetta rolled her eyes. “No, what did they say?”
“You might’ve, too, if you just came back from two years of killin’ people. But that ain’t what’s got you all hot and bothered, either. Quit your half-steppin’ and unload your problem.”
“Okay, okay. I’m wondering why all of a sudden CJ’s so hot to take me out, and to the symphony, no less. A blues concert, jazz at El Chapultepec, a movie even. Those I could understand, but the symphony? Classical music has never been his cup of tea. You know that.”
“Maybe he’s just branchin’ out.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got the strangest feeling that I’m headed to the symphony to be nothing more than an ornament on his arm. That he’s really going there for some other reason.”
“And I’m thinkin’ you’ve been takin’ too many of them college psychology classes.”
“Maybe. But I can’t shake the feeling.”
“Then let me go in your place, girl.” Odetta strutted down the restaurant’s center aisle, one arm locked in an imaginary CJ’s.
“No, I’m going, if for no other reason than to shake this feeling.”
“Now you’re talkin’. Best to take things the way they come in life. Ain’t no other way.”
“I guess so,” said Mavis, setting the tray of salt and pepper shakers on a nearby table.
“Ain’t no guessin’ to it—you ain’t about to change CJ, and he ain’t changin’ you. And like you said, it ain’t nothin’ but a date, remember?”
Mavis nodded, just once and very slowly. “Yeah, that’s all it is, a date,” she said, aware that deep down she was afraid of coming face to face with her dreams only to find out they weren’t at all what she’d expected.
Walt Reasoner sat alone at the bar in Eddy Cox’s Place, a neighborhood watering hole in the mostly Italian section of North Denver, sliding an empty beer mug back and forth across the bar from his right hand to his left. He was about to ask the bartender, the bar’s only other occupant besides two people sitting at a table near the back, for a new frosted mug of Coors on tap when a pasty-faced man wearing an out-of-place summer straw hat sidled across the room and plopped down on the bar stool next to him. “You called? I came,” the man said, cocking his hat to one side before slapping Reasoner on the back. “What’s your problem, Wally-boy?” he asked, addressing Reasoner by a nickname he hated.
Looking startled and clearly offended, Reasoner waved for another beer and said, “Got a problem with a shine over in Five Points who doesn’t want to step in line with my program. And drop the Wally-boy, okay?”
“They like to be called blacks nowadays, Wally-boy. You need to listen to the nightly news more often.”
Reasoner shot the man an angry look as the bartender set an icy mug of beer down in front of him. “You here to give a fucking civil rights lecture or help?”
Flashing the bartender a set of perfectly aligned white teeth, save for a noticeable gap between his two top incisors, the man in the straw hat waved off service. “I’m here for whatever you need, Wally.”
“Good. What I need is for you to get that shine with the problem to queue up with the rest of the flock I’ve spent the better part of two years corralling. Two expensive, business-building years of keeping my competition out of the picture, flatfoots from sniffing around, and do-good bureaucrats off my ass.”
Straw hat laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Wally-boy. Those competitors you’re talkin’ about don’t want the business. It’s too fuckin’ small and way too fragmented. I work for them, remember? As for those politicos you’re payin’ to look the other way so you can keep your share of the produce market—hell, they’d turn on your ass in a second if they figured it would benefit ’em.” The man sucked a stream of air through the gap between his front teeth. “And the cops—come on, now, Wally. You don’t think they really give a shit. It’s a shine you’re havin’ problems with, remember?” The man smiled and slapped Reasoner on the back. “So how hard do you want me push?” He reached up and adjusted his hat back off his forehead.
“Hard enough that he gets the message.”
“What’s his name, and where’s he located?”
“Willis Sundee, and he owns a greasy spoon called Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen over in Five Points.”
“There you go again, Wally-boy, being outa touch.” The man shook his head. “Mae’s Kitchen’s gotta be the top soul-food restaurant in the state. Best ham hocks and butter beans I’ve ever eaten.” He rubbed his belly a couple of times before the look on his face turned deadly serious. “Whatta ya want? A little intimidation, water damage, fire?”
“Whatever it takes, Louie.”
Louie Jordan’s face lit up. “Fire’s been workin’ good lately.”
“It’s your call. Just make sure it’s enough of a push to make Mr. Sundee get back in line, and enough to make everybody else I’m servicing sit up and take notice.”
“I’ll handle it. No problem.”
“Good. We’ll settle up when you’re done.”
“Times are tight, Wally-boy. This time I’m gonna need a little somethin’ down.”
“How much?”
“Half. Let’s say fifteen hundred.”
Reasoner sat back, reached into his pants pocket, and after making sure the bartender wasn’t looking extracted a wad of cash. Leafing off eight hundred-dollar bills, he handed them under the bar to Jordan. “You’re fifty ahead, Louie.”
“I’ll take that as a show of confidence.”
“Take it however you like. Just leave my message with Sundee, and don’t screw up.”
Jordan smiled. “Wouldn’t stay in business very long if I was a screw-up, Wally. I’ll let you know when the message has been delivered.” Jordan stuffed the cash into his pocket, brushed his straw hat forward with two fingers, and headed for the now empty parking lot, with Walt Reasoner a couple of steps behind.
A year earlier, on a lark and because of the street’s name, Gay-lord Marquee had visited a recently renovated old home on Denver’s south Gaylord Street. An enterprising East Coast–transplant architect swimming in construction-loan funds from a New Jersey bank and wanting to get a foothold in Denver had turned the house into a tastefully done Tudor. Marquee had been so impressed with the quality of the workmanship that he’d bought the home on the spot. He’d furnished the 2,400-square-foot, six-room two-story with schoolhouse antiques, Navajo rugs, and 1930s craftsman-style furnishings that included a rare blackboard, school clock, and a couple of pupils’ desks from the 1920s.
Exhausted from a busy day, Marquee was talking on the phone in the home’s great room, squeezed into one of the undersized right-armed school desks, complete with its original inkwell and the initials PG carved into the desktop, and twiddling a pencil as the person on the other end of the line berated him.
“I know you think that charming little accent of yours causes most people to think you’re brilliant, Gaylord. But not me. I should’ve never gotten in bed with you or Chin. I’m getting phone calls and questions from people that I don’t want to answer.”
“So lie low and keep your mouth shut. Who’s asking questions, anyway?”
“Cops, after all this time no less, and other people I’m tired of either dodging or holding at bay. I think it’s because it’s the five-year anniversary of the killings.”
“I see,” said Marquee.
“You don’t sound surprised.”
When Marquee didn’t answer, his caller said, “Well, get them off my bac
k.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Do better, Gaylord. After that, you can go back to putting on airs.” The caller erupted in a high pitched half grunt and slammed down the phone.
Biting back his anger, Marquee hung up as well. Rising from his chair, he walked across the room to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and printed the word Jackass in two-inch-high letters near the bottom of the board.
Petey Greene had had one hell of a good week. He’d sold two first-edition copies of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that he’d stumbled across at a Goodwill store in suburban Wheat Ridge to an eager book dealer on Denver’s antiques row for a hundred and fifty dollars each. He’d found the jug wine he loved on sale for $4.99 a half gallon at Argonaut Liquors on East Colfax Avenue and bought a case of it. And best of all, he’d wrangled two snooping assignments out of his friend CJ Floyd.
Thinking that he’d be in the grapes and flush for a couple of months, Petey peeked his head above the front wheel of his moped, raised the five-hundred-dollar Bausch & Lomb binoculars he’d scored a few years earlier for thirteen dollars at a garage sale to his eyes, and sighted in on the guest-room window of Walt Reasoner’s home.
Reasoner’s place hadn’t been all that hard to find. Petey had simply made a call to a 250-pound Denver DMV supervisor, a Latina he’d been servicing for years, and asked her to punch up Reasoner’s home address and phone number for him. After a brief detour for a beer at the Satire Lounge on East Colfax, he’d dropped by Epic Produce & Meats, scoped it out, and followed Reasoner from his office to Eddy Cox’s Place and then to his home. He’d jotted a few notes about the man in the straw hat that Reasoner had walked out of Eddy’s Place with and had noted the license-plate numbers of both men.
Snickering softly and lowering his binoculars, he couldn’t help but think how much he enjoyed playing snoop. Like collecting antiques, snooping not only took him away from the mundane, it always carried an air of excitement with it.