by Blake Pierce
She did not recognize the cook, which was a shame. The cook/waiter she used to know had been an overweight and joyful black man known only as Bear. The current cook looked to be of Italian descent. She had not been inside Heat Wave in nearly eight months, so she supposed a lot had changed—something that tended to happen in the smaller jazz clubs, thanks to prohibition.
She walked to the bar area and sat down next to one of the two current diners. She was waiting for the cook to come back so she could order a coffee and ask whatever happened to Bear. But before the cook came back, a rusty voice spoke up from beside her.
“Ava?” the man sitting next to her said.
She turned to her right and saw a face that was vaguely familiar. It was one she hadn’t seen in nearly three years and back then, it had not been partially covered by the beard she was now looking at. It took a while for the name to come to her, but when it did, she smiled and the name came out almost like a laugh.
“Reggie?”
Reggie Wilson beamed at her. She felt terrible for taking so long to figure out who he was. How many nights had he played his trumpet behind her in this very club and at least a handful of others? Reggie was easily one of the better freelance trumpet players in the city not tied down to any one band so he could enjoy playing with a variety of people. She wasn’t sure where he hailed from, but he’d always hinted that his family had been rather privileged in the south following the Civil War. Wanting no part of the racism that had not yet died down that way, he’d come to New York as soon as he could, bringing only a trumpet and some clothes.
“Where on earth did you disappear to, you crazy broad?” Reggie asked.
“Oh, I’ve always been around. I just took a step away, always planning to come back.”
“Oh yeah? And when might that be?”
“Well, it was going to be soon…but life sort of took a different direction.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” Reggie said.
“You’re still playing, right?”
“For sure. Playing here tonight with a hotsy-totsy quartet.”
The cook came by and Ava ordered her coffee and a biscuit—what Bear had once called a cat-heat biscuit due to its size and shape. She forgot to ask about Bear, though, as she was so wrapped up in catching up with Reggie.
“And what about you?” Reggie asked. “It was the kid, wasn’t it? Your kid got older and you needed to be a mom, right? I see it a lot. Mostly women, though. Men apparently don’t care.”
“Yeah, that was part of it. And I don’t regret it.”
“Good for you.” He frowned and when he looked up, his mood had shifted. “I suppose you’re even busier with the kid now, huh? I heard about your husband. I only ever saw him, sitting in the back of clubs you were singing in, but he seemed to really adore you.”
“He did. And in terms of what I’m doing now…” She stopped here, wrestling with an unexpected surge of emotion. “I’m sort of trying to fill his shoes.”
“You mean, playing the father part, too?”
“No, I mean playing the cop part.”
Reggie grinned widely and gave her a perplexed look. “You fooling me?”
“Nope. I’m actually on a case right now. I was hoping to come by and ask Bear some questions because he was always in the know.”
“Wow, you haven’t been here in a while, have you? Bear got recruited by some hot-shot classy restaurant. He’d been gone for three or four months now. But more importantly…you’re really a cop? They have women cops?”
“Sort of. But this one is a special kind of deal…”
“You got a gun?” Reggie asked with a wink.
“No. Nothing like that. I just…hey, wait. You know what? You still get around to all the clubs, right?”
“I do. Some good, some bad, some I’d not even bother mentioning. Why do you ask?”
She was slow to proceed, not wanting to scare him away or make him hesitant to speak with her. “Have you heard about the hatchet killer?”
“Read about it this morning,” he said as the cook brought Ava her coffee and biscuit. “That’s some scary stuff. They got you looking into it?”
“In a roundabout way, yes. Both of these women are linked to clubs. The one last night was coming home from one when she was killed. The first victim was killed behind the Key Factory. You said you read about it…did you know either of them?”
“The names didn’t ring a bell, but I’ll tell you this—the way they were killed made me think of this wrong number I always heard about in whispers in the clubs. You ever hear of Tony Two?”
The name didn’t ring a bell. “No, I don’t think so.”
Reggie lowered his head and his voice, clearly enjoying the idea of dishing what he knew. “Tony Two is literally a hatchet man. As the story goes, he works for the mob, going around and collecting gambling debts. And that hatchet…that’s his gimmick. You’re late on a payment, he takes your pinky finger with a hatchet. If that doesn’t do the job, he’ll come back and take your thumb.”
“Who told you about this?” Ava asked.
“No one in particular. It’s just some of the stuff you hear, you know? I’ve seen the guy a time or two—some other players pointed him out to me. A low-level kind of guy. You wouldn’t think he’d be that type.”
“You’ve seen him in clubs?” she asked, surprised.
“Just once or twice. But mob guys are coming to shows more and more now—wanting to make their presence known. So it wasn’t that big of a deal. Although, you know…one of those places was the Key Factory.”
“How long ago?” she asked. The case was already showing promise and she hadn’t even been on the streets for more than two hours. Was it really going to come together so easily?
“Maybe three months ago. Not sure.”
Ava sipped from her coffee and took a bite out of her biscuit, thinking. She reached for her coin purse in her pocket but Reggie protested.
“Nope, I got this, Mrs. Copper. I can see you’re on your way out.”
“Thanks, Reggie. And look…maybe don’t tell anyone what I’m doing these days. Right now, I have the element of surprise working for me.”
“You got it…only if you promise to sing with me first when you make your reappearance.”
“That’s a deal,” she said. And she was slightly surprised to realize that she absolutely meant it.
***
As Ava made her way to the Key Factory—which was about three miles away from Heat Wave—she stopped at a few other places she knew. Some, she’d only been in once or twice, and other places felt like home. Like Heat wave, she found that some of the employees she had come to know had either been fired, arrested, or had gone elsewhere. Prohibition was really taking its toll almost everywhere she looked.
She saw two familiar faces along the way—an aging pianist who seemed to barely remember her, and another singer who had often sung as her male accompaniment. The singer’s name was Wayland Huston and when Ava ran into him in an up-and-coming clip joint at 1:30, he was giving an informal voice lesson to an eighteen-year-old who, from the sound of it, clearly had talent but needed some fine tuning.
Wayland was happy to see Ava and, like Reggie and Jack Dooley, expressed their sadness that she had stepped away from the scene. When she asked Wayland if he was familiar with a guy known as Tony Two, he got slightly uncomfortable.
“Why are you asking about goons like that, Ava?” he asked. “You know Tony Two is in the mob, right?”
“I do. I just heard some stories and wondered if they were true. I hear the mob is poking their head around more than they used to.”
“They are. But I don’t really even mind because it means more attention for the clubs and music. But some of these guys—like Tony Two—are just bad news.”
“What do you know about him?” she asked
He shared the same information Reggie had given her, but Wayland had a bit more to offer. “Some stool-pigeon was saying Tony got into a he
ated argument at a club last week. Not sure over what. But from what I hear, his long-time baby doll walked out on him and he’s been unhinged ever since. Some people wonder if he doesn’t roll up in the clubs with that damned hatchet on him.”
Ava wished Wayland well, leaving him to his voice student just twenty minutes after reintroducing herself for the first time in a year and a half. She then finished her circuit, arriving at the Key Factory at three in the afternoon. It should provide her plenty of time to get back to the precinct by five, per Wimbly’s orders.
When she walked in the door, she saw some of the night’s scheduled musicians already taking their instruments out on the stage, preparing for what she was sure would be a very abbreviated sound check. It made her miss those afternoons, a few secret drinks in her and the afternoon light pouring in through dusty windows and doors as she warmed up for a night’s performance. Maybe someday soon, she would manage to get back into it.
As she was bathing in the nostalgia of it all, a warm and excited voice greeted her from the far side of the room.
“Ava, I knew you wouldn’t stay away so long this time!”
She turned toward Jack Dooley and saw him smoothing out a velvet tablecloth on one of the small tables scattered all over the floor. He slid a chair in behind it and then came over to greet her.
Smiling, he said, “I see you came without the heat today.”
“I wasn’t with him yesterday.”
“Well, you should be with him from now on. You being there made him much more likeable!” He shook his head, chuckling, and said: “I still can’t believe you’re a policeman. Policewoman. What is it? How do I say it?”
“I don’t know that it matters. Look, Jack, I have to keep this visit short. Have you heard about the other woman that was killed?”
“No! Who was it?”
“A woman named Annie Tate. Does that sound familiar to you?”
Jack considered it for a moment and then shook his head. “Can’t say it does. You think it was the same guy that offed the woman in my alleyway?”
“It looks that way. And that’s why I’m here. I think I might have a lead. What do you know about a mobster by the name of Tony Two?”
“You’re not going after him, are you?” Jack asked, aghast.
“No,” she said, though she really had no idea what the rest of the day would bring. “I’ve just been putting a profile together on him today. You know who he is?”
“I do, oh yeah. Creepy little goon, that’s for sure. Not that I’d ever tell him. The mob…you can never be too careful, you know.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not well. Just from what folks have told me. He’s been in here a few times. Never started trouble but everyone sort of stayed away from him, you know. Except the ladies he brought in with him.”
“I suppose you know what they say he does for the mob?”
“Yeah. Takes fingers if you owe money. And if you ask me, if you can do that sort of thing, there ain’t much else you won’t do.”
“Is there anything about him you can tell me that hasn’t already been whispered about?”
Jack looked to the ground and frowned. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking back up at Ava and clearly wrestling with something.
“It’s okay, Jack. You can tell me. Your name will stay out of it.”
“There was this guy that used to come in here a while back…almost every Monday and Wednesday night. A big gambler-type. He’s a real whiz at poker from what I gather. He always bragged that he’s played ’em all. Even some mobsters. He said that when the mobsters go out for some fun, they sometimes bring him along to win some cash. He said sometimes he plays with some mob guys on Thursday nights. He even named a few…and one of them was Tony Two. That’s apparently how he got his name; he’s really lucky with the deuces.”
“Thursdays,” Ava said. “So…tonight. You know where they play?”
“Ava…I can’t. I can’t send you into it. And if they find out it was me…”
“I’d never do that to you, Jack. Between you and me…there are a lot of eyes on me. If I fail and make men angry, I can live with that. But a young woman is dead—two, in fact. And I want to make sure there won’t be any more. Also, the last thing I’d want to do in trying to prove myself is make a mark out of old friends.”
Jack nodded and would not look at her when he answered. “It’s a backroom poker game. Takes place pretty much all night. Cards, drinking, women, sort of a party from what I hear. They have it out of the back of that small auto dealership on Madison.”
“You’re sure of this?” Ava asked. She could hardly believe her luck—how reliable her old friends were turning out to be.
“Oh yeah…this fool was so proud of himself, he told every single detail he could.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“Sure. Now as payment, you need to get up on my stage sometime soon.”
She was flattered; it was the second such invitation she’d gotten today. The thought was almost as exciting as the information she’d just gotten—a strong lead to a mobster known to use hatchets on people.
She tried to seem confident and calm as she left, but when she hit the streets, she put a bit of extra speed into her step, anxious to tell Frank Wimbly she might be on to something. But more than that, the extra bounce in her step was a great way to convince herself she wasn’t as nervous as she actually was. In a way, she supposed she might be trying to outrun the sense of foreboding she was starting to feel, creeping up behind her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Ava returned to the precinct at 4:55 that afternoon, Frank was nowhere to be found. She didn’t want to go into the building in search of him because if Minard found out, there might be hell to pay. She walked the block a few times, meandering through the thickening afternoon activity on the streets, but Frank never showed up. When her watch read 5:20, she figured it was worth taking a chance.
She headed inside and found that the precinct had calmed considerably since this morning. Still, she assumed Minard was holed up somewhere looking into the hatchet killer case. She hurriedly approached the front desk and did her best to put on an embarrassed look. She found Wayne Gibb standing behind it. He looked a little flustered as she approached.
“Hello, Mr. Gibb,” she said. “I was wondering if there were any messages for me from Detective Wimbly.”
Gibb looked down to the desk and thumbed through a few sheets of paper before shaking his head. “Nothing.”
She feigned confusion and leaned on the desk. “He was onto a lead and asked me to come back to the station. But I haven’t seen him since we separated. So…I guess I need to leave one for him.”
Gibb picked up a pen and nodded to her to go ahead.
“Possible break at the auto dealership on Madison.”
Gibb jotted it down and said, “That’s it?”
“Yes, thanks, Mr. Gibb.”
Although things felt incomplete and up in the air, she finished out her day as expected. She finished up some of the paperwork from the welcome packet that had gone neglected, enjoying the secure feeling of sitting behind the desk down in the office of the Women’s Bureau. When all of that was done, she quickly headed back outside just to make sure she would not accidentally run into Minard. Besides, there was still so sign of Frank, so she thought it seemed like a waste of time to just stay around the precinct.
She thought of the poker game that would be taking place on Madison later tonight. She toyed with the idea of calling the precinct and dropping the clue to Minard. It seemed like the smart thing to do on the surface, but she doubted anyone would take her lead seriously. Also, even if it was taken seriously, Minard and all others further up the ladder would demand to know where she got her information—and she wasn’t about to offer up old friends like that.
It was 5:55 when she reached the gym. She found the door closed and locked. Her dad usually stayed open until seven; she wondered what was differ
ent about today. Wondering if Jeffrey was maybe sick or had gotten into some sort of trouble at school, she hurried home.
Her feet were aching by the time she got to her apartment. She wondered how much longer these shoes would last and made a mental note to set some money aside from an extra pair just in case. She was thinking of how to even start setting money aside when she got to her apartment. She could smell food cooking on the other side—biscuits baking and the smell of some sort of meat.
She entered to find her father and Jeffrey at the stove. The biscuits had just come out of the oven, and the meat that was cooking was bacon, sizzling and popping on the burner. She also saw that a tomato had been sliced up. From the lopsided size and cut of the slices, she assumed this had been Jeffrey’s contribution.
“Dad, I was actually on time today,” Ava said as she closed the door behind her. “Why’d you close early?”
“My one lesson cancelled on me for the day,” Roosevelt said. “And Jeffrey here was getting bored, so we left.”
“Bored at the boxing gym?” Ava said, leaning in to kiss her son on the cheek.
“Well,” Roosevelt said, “that, and I was hungry. Now stop interrogating us and set the table, would you?”
The three of them sat down to a dinner of bacon and tomato biscuits—a simple dinner that Jeffrey had always loved. And while Roosevelt’s biscuits were dense and dry, she loved that Jeffrey was polite enough not to complain. As they ate, Ava did what she could to keep all conversation geared toward Jeffrey’s school and what was currently going on at the gym.
“Any promising kids down at the gym these days?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, for sure,” Roosevelt said, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve got this nineteen-year-old who used to work the docks…he’s got fists like iron mallets and feet like a dancer. Another three months of training and he might have a legitimate shot at some real fighters.”