Nine Fingers

by Thom August

  “Inside?” the Nephew asks.

  “The new saxophone player?” I say.

  The Old Man nods.

  The Nephew’s head is swiveling. “What the fuck? What does it mean?”

  “It means,” the Old Man says, “that the cops have put a cop in the band. He used to play saxophone, back in the day, and now he’s on the inside. It means it’s going to be harder now. We go in there blazing, now we have someone who will shoot back. And not just anyone, but a decorated detective…”

  “With something to prove,” I add.

  “Oh, yes, my friend, with a lot to prove,” he says.

  The car goes around the block again. The Old Man notices. Picks up a phone, presses a number, speaks. “Could you please find somewhere else to drive? We’re being a little obvious here, going around the same block, over and over.”

  Pauses. Listens.

  “What am I, Traffic on the Twos? I don’t care where you drive, just drive somewhere else.” Slams the phone down.

  Driver makes an immediate left.

  The Nephew speaks up. “Here’s what we do.” We listen. “This band, they’re playing again tomorrow night, at the Casbah. You know the place?”

  Surprise. He is doing some homework. I nod.

  “We let Laura out tomorrow night. She’s been all cooped up, she’s going to want to see whoever it is. You go there, wait for her to show up and see who she sees.”

  “Not what I do,” I say.

  “That’s true…” the Old Man says. “That’s the way it’s always been…”

  “What the fuck?” the Nephew says. “We’ll pay you your normal rate, just to look and report back. The same money you get for a hit. That’s fair, isn’t it?” he says, asking the Old Man.

  “It’s not about the money…” The Old Man and I both say this. At the same time.

  “It would mean exposure,” the Old Man says. “One reason our friend here has been able to help us out in this way for so many years is that he does not do anything but what he does. And no one ever sees him do it, except maybe the vic, and the vic doesn’t live to tell about it. What you’re talking about, he could be seen. We have other people. Send someone else.”

  The Nephew is not happy.

  “I am so tired of this fucking shit,” he says.

  “Number one, he knows the players, right? He won’t get confused or give us some cryptic shit about ‘the black one in the back.’ He can just say ‘Powell,’ or ‘Jones,’ or whoever. Number two, he’s supposed to be so good at disguises, right? So he can do it again, a different disguise. And number three, I mean, this isn’t some stupid coke deal. This is a family thing…I say we use the best we’ve fucking got and keep it close to us.”

  The Old Man is staring out the window. He is not going to back me up on this.

  “So,” the Nephew says, “it sounds like we have a fucking plan.”

  “How are you going to make sure she gets out?” the Old Man asks.

  “What, Laura? Don’t worry about it, that’s my end.” He turns to me. “You just make sure you’re there to see who she runs to.”

  Nothing I can do. Trapped in this.

  “So you’ll do this, and report back, what, Thursday, same time, same place, we’ll pick you up—”

  “No,” I say. “Different time, different place.” Least I can do. “Say, two in the afternoon, bus shelter at Fifty-first and Lake Park, southwest corner.”

  Least I can do. But this is not good. This is not good at all.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ken Ridlin

  At the Casbah

  Wednesday, January 22

  Powell is already here when I walk in. He’s standing on the stage, in a corner, with his back to the room, a Harmon mute in his trumpet, playing long tones. You can’t hear it, because he’s playing along with the tune that’s on the Muzak, which is some pop thing, all dynamics and no soul. He’s being very unobtrusive, playing pianissimo. It’s harder to play soft than it is to play loud, especially on an instrument like the trumpet. This is something I know from before. If you didn’t look closely, you would think he was just standing there, holding that horn up to his lips, not playing, but maybe just warming it up. Maybe not even warming it up but just getting the feel of it. Maybe not even getting the feel of it but just resting it in his hands. When you look closely, you can see the muscles in his embouchure tightening. If you look really closely, you can see his chest rising slightly as he breathes in. Impressive. Myself, I must look like I’m gasping, drowning, going down for the third time. Powell is not drowning. He’s swimming. No, he’s not swimming, he’s floating on his back. No, he’s not floating, he’s on a raft, half-asleep, gliding with the tide. That’s how good his breathing is. On my best day, back when I could play all night, I never had breathing like this.

  Powell is standing by the piano, pointing toward it. As I get closer, I see a head, dark hair, over the edge of the piano, slowly bobbing up and down with the downbeat. It’s Amatucci, leaning over. He’s playing simple chords, as softly as Powell. I cannot hear him; I can see his hand moving, his right hand. His left hand is down in his lap. They are playing together, the way they have for years.

  The stage is on the left as you come in, in the front right corner as you face the front of the building. Opposite it is a long wide bar. No wood, just a kind of rough sandstone texture, curved, swooping in and around. The lights behind it are all indirect. You can’t see the lights themselves, just the glow on all the pretty bottles.

  Along both sides are little alcoves with semi-hidden tables, places to have a quiet drink, places to have a private romantic moment. You can only see in from directly in front of each—from the side they are shadowed by the arches.

  In the center of the room, small round tables are scattered about. I watch a waiter swerve his way through them, a tray of drinks on his upturned palm. And then I notice it—there is no floor, just sand, maybe half a foot, I think. Everywhere. Oh, man.

  I look up. In a sort of closed balcony there are tiny spaces that look like caves. I see a woman’s hand at one of them, lolling over the curved ledge, but you can’t see inside them at all. Very private. Very dark. Flickers of candlelight.

  If Ford’s Theatre had been built this way, they never would have caught John Wilkes Booth. Caught him? They never would have seen him. I keep scanning, at the spiral staircase leading to the balcony, at the tables tucked under the overhang, at the mess in the middle.

  I don’t know what I’m seeing.

  Of course, I don’t know what I’m looking for, either.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Cleaner

  At the Casbah

  Wednesday, January 22

  8:30 A.M.: Strange place. Little slice of the desert, middle of the Near North Side. Table upstairs, little booth, alcove, whatever. No straight lines. Arches the color of clay. Sand on the floor for Christ’s sake, six inches deep. Sand all in my shoes.

  Pain is about a two. For a change.

  The waiters? Waitresses? All wearing poofy white shirts, no collars, all buttoned up. Poofy black pants, tight around the ankles. On their heads? Those little caps, look like an upside-down thimble. What do you call them? A fez. With a tassel on top.

  The clientele? All dressed in black. Not a necktie in sight. Air kisses for the women, knuckle bumps for the men. Heavy jewelry, all around. Paradise for phonies.

  Ridlin shows up last. Same face. Looks like he has lost half his weight. Powell introduces the band. They start right in. Modern jazz tonight, place like this.

  9:15 A.M.: Scan the room. Check each one, one at a time. No Laura.

  First set finishes up. Band splits up, Powell to the bar, talking to Amatucci. Jones screwing with her drums. Worrell comes up the staircase, the can. Landreau sits there, the piano.

  10:00 A.M.: Second set. More of the same. Grows on you. Crowd starting to get into it. Talk is down, dinner mostly over. My foot is tapping. Old habit.

  10:22 A.M.: The front do
or opens. She walks in and stops the freaking room. Again.

  Laura.

  Wears a little gold number. A black coat over her arm. She walks to the bar. Seat opens up, like magic. Slings the coat down, perches. Next to Amatucci.

  Powell still staring at the floor. Eyes closed. Worrell playing a solo. He is sneaking peaks. Ridlin looking straight at her. Jones looking up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, flailing away with the brushes. Landreau? Sees her at the door. Tracks her all the way to the bar. Leans forward. Squints. Then there’s Amatucci. Sitting next to her. Looking at the band.

  Laura reaches over. Places her hand on Amatucci’s arm. There is a cigarette in her other hand. He sees it, gets a lighter out. Snaps it on, holds it up. She leans in, lights up. Nods at him.

  Whole time, he does not look at her. She does not look at him. Usually a moment, when the flame touches the tobacco, the woman looks up. The whole point. Not this time. She stares at the lighter. He stares at the cigarette.

  Great. The high probables? Do not even see her. The low probables? Are all staring.

  Powell introduces the band again. I am watching Laura. She applauds the same for each one. Powell introduces Amatucci, at the bar. She gives him the same smile, the same applause.

  I told them. This is not what I do.

  Introductions are over. Remember this one, the old days. “Night In…” something. Middle-Eastern-sounding. “Tunisia.” “Night in Tunisia.”

  Perfect. It is “Night in Tunisia,” in the Casbah. She is here and they are here and I am here. And what I am supposed to see? Is invisible.

  Band plays the hell out of it. Got to give them that.

  Laura is looking at each one of them, when they play. She is rocking on her bar stool.

  Maybe it is none of them. Maybe she likes the music.

  Coming to the end now. Powell plays a phrase. Holds the last note. Then seven crashes on the cymbals, and a pause, and they all end with two short choppy notes.

  Crowd goes nuts. I am looking. Laura is standing, cheering. Crowd sees her standing. They stand. Powell waves the horn over his head. Crowd roars. They walk toward the bar.

  They come up to Amatucci. Handshakes all around. Laura jumps in. Starts kissing everybody. Kisses Jones. Kisses Worrell. Kisses Ridlin. Leans over, kisses Amatucci. Kisses Powell. Kisses Landreau. Gives him a big hug.

  There is someone else. Coming up behind them. Female. Long fur coat. Floppy black hat. Grabs Landreau by the shoulder. Hauls back her right hand and slaps him hard. Across the face. He reels back. She pulls back to slap him again. Freezes.

  Looking for her face. Cannot see her face.

  Landreau falls back. The woman grabs Laura. The hair, a good handful. Pulls her off the barstool. Pulls her to the door. Waiters diving for cover.

  The woman turns. Hat falls off. Stares back at Landreau. Her face? A mask of shock.

  Aw, Jesus.

  Aw, shit.

  CHAPTER 38

  Ken Ridlin

  At the Casbah

  Wednesday, January 22

  The crowd is buzzing, my head is throbbing, my eyes are blazing. We have maybe ten minutes left on the break. I turn to the band, say, “Let’s go. Everyone outside. We need to talk.”

  I’ve got my serious voice on, and they comply. It takes all of a minute to get them rounded up and out the door and into the alley.

  Amatucci lights a cigarette. Worrell pulls out a briar pipe and sucks on it, unlit. Powell has his hands in his coat pockets, Jones has her hands in her armpits. Landreau leans up against the bricks, watching his toe draw circles in the snow.

  “So what the hell was that?” I ask.

  No response. I expect a wisecrack from Amatucci, but even he is mute.

  “So what the hell was that?” I repeat. “Talk to me.”

  They are looking away. Shifting their weight. Looking at their shoes.

  “You don’t want to talk?” I say. “Then you get to listen. That was Amelia Della Chiesa, the long-lost wife of Joe Zep, the Boss of all Bosses for the whole damn city. She was dragging her little girl out of the bar, the little girl that one of you is screwing. The Don, he knows that one of you is screwing her. And now that she knows it, I’d be surprised if it isn’t on the front page of tomorrow’s Sun-Times.”

  They still do not want to talk.

  I turn to Landreau. “And you, she turns specifically to you, and slaps you in the face. Is it you who’s screwing her?”

  He shakes his head, but he’s avoiding my eyes.

  I know he’s all wrong for it, but I hate the attitude. I grab him by the shirt and push him against the wall, get in his face. “This is the cop speaking, not the saxophone player, you hear me?” He nods, looking away. “Is it you? Are you the one who’s screwing her?”

  He looks me in the eyes. “I have not had intercourse with her or her mother. I swear.”

  What? Where does that come from?

  Amatucci reaches in, grabs my arm. “Leave him alone,” he says. “It’s not him.”

  “OK, smartass,” I say. I drop Landreau, get in Amatucci’s face. “You want to play, too? How about you? Have you been screwing her?”

  He looks at me, and says, “Yeah, I fucked her.”

  I step back. Is he being sarcastic?

  “Vince,” Jones pleads. “Vince…”

  “It’s true. I fucked her. She was something else, man. It was truly incredible. She was without a doubt the best piece of ass I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m not lying.”

  I’m counting. That was five, six sentences, not two.

  “Shut up!” Jones yells. “Shut up shut up shut up!”

  I turn toward her. She is shivering. I notice she is wearing black jeans and a T-shirt, and it is only fifteen degrees out.

  “What, is he lying?” I ask.

  She looks at Amatucci, looks back at me. “No. Yes.”

  I wait.

  “Yes, he slept with her. Once. At my apartment, the night after his hand got broken. He was loaded on meds, half out of his mind. And he woke up and found us there, Laura and me.”

  I stare at her. Landreau leans forward. “She’s my lover,” she says. “We’ve been together for six months. They—they were coming after me.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Ken Ridlin

  After the Casbah

  Wednesday, January 22

  The rest of the gig? Well, let’s just say that we finish it. The last set is terrible. Amatucci is sulking at the bar. Jones is playing the drums like she has two broken wrists. Powell doesn’t want to solo, Landreau is a million miles away, sneaking glances at the door. Worrell is sawing at the bass like he wants to cut it in half.

  Me? I’m playing my ass off, best I have played in years. Story of my life.

  So it drags on and on, and soon enough Powell introduces the band one last time and thanks the crowd. And we are done.

  I immediately turn to them and say, “Is there a place we can talk?”

  They fumble around. I get the feeling I’m not about to be invited into anyone’s house.

  Amatucci turns to me, says, “I’ve got the cab. It’s a big old Checker International, seats seven in a pinch.”

  I look at him.

  “Hey, I’ll even leave the meter off,” he says. “What the Fat Man doesn’t know…”

  I nod and we all pack up.

  Amatucci is helping Jones with her kit, one-handed. I tuck the soprano-sax case under my arm, grab the tenor and alto cases with the same hand, and pick up her bass drum. Worrell is standing by the door, his bass under one arm, his tuba under the other. Landreau picks up the high-hat bag and the snare. Powell grabs the tom-tom. Usually, she won’t let anyone touch her stuff.

  We’re outside in the snow and it is still fifteen degrees but the wind has come up and it is like a knife in the back of the neck. Amatucci’s cab is parked in a cabstand right out front. There are three or four couples lined up, waiting for a taxi to show. They see us start to load up, and don’t know
whether to applaud us or curse us. We’re the band they were just cheering. We’re also the people who are taking their ride. One guy has a cell phone in his hand. Amatucci slings the drums he is carrying into the trunk, taps the guy on the shoulder, motions for the phone, opens it, taps in a number. He talks, they all listen. He turns the phone off, hands it back to the fat guy, says “Five cabs, five minutes.”

  He turns to me: “I called Checker. It seemed the decent thing to do,” he says.

  We load up the cab and pile inside, Amatucci in the driver’s seat, me in the front passenger seat, the others in the back.

  We go three, four blocks. I signal to pull over. He does, rounding a corner onto a side street, easing into a loading zone. He kills the headlights.

  “Vince, do you have a cigarette?” Powell asks.

  Amatucci flips one out of his pack, passes it back to him.

  “I didn’t know you smoke,” I say.

  “Smoke? I don’t smoke,” he says, taking a light from Worrell. Worrell himself has got his pipe out, and spends a minute firing it up, tamping it down, and firing it up again. Jones tries to wave the smoke away and they both crack their windows and try to aim the smoke outside. Amatucci is fumbling with something in his lap, one of those little pot pipes. He fills it up carefully, one-handed. As he’s about to light it, he turns to me. “Gonna bust me for this?” I just turn away and crack my window. He takes a couple of hits, passes it to Jones. She takes one hit, another, passes it back. He offers it to Landreau, who declines, offers it to me. There was a time, well…I tell him “No, thanks.”

  “So,” I say, to no one in particular, “tell me about it.”

  Jones exhales, looks at me. “We met in a bar. I was playing there with one of my other bands. She asked me out for a drink, and it kind of went from there.”

  “How long?” I ask.

  “Six months, so far.”