by Dion Baia
From the wings, Laszlo Strozek walked out onstage. He was a short European, with prominent blue eyes that were emphasized by dark bags underneath. His dark greased-back hair was parted off center and shined, appearing glossy and wet under the harsh lights above. He wore a pencil-thin mustache above his lip. His demeanor was sedated and relaxed, and all eyes unconsciously appeared drawn to him. And it wasn’t because at this point Strozek might have been the only white man in the club.
Laszlo walked over to the microphone, shook the announcer’s hand, and took a drag from his long, thin cigarette. “Thank you, thank you. You’re all too kind, thank you.” A very slight German accent could be detected. “I feel like I’m about to give a sermon…. Go buy some war bonds!”
The crowd laughed hysterically.
Walter had a thought and looked down at his pad, checking the notes about Caldonia’s supposed “boyfriend.” His scribbled ink read: BF White - possible foreign / possible musician ~
Laszlo went on. “I thank you all again for lending us your ear.”
He signaled with his hand, and the spotlight trained on him was replaced with a soft, fluorescent kind of glow lighting the entire stage. It revealed the other members of his band, behind their instruments.
“Shall we begin?”
Laszlo turned to his boys and counted off. They started a very fast-paced version of Ray Noble’s “Cherokee.” The crowd immediately went nuts and began to tear up the dance floor.
Laszlo took his time moving over to the piano, letting the other members of the band jam out to the intro. Once he took a seat, he waited a few bars before joining in.
The musicians were at the top of their game, but it was Laszlo now who had all the attention. It was like the crowd was witnessing magic right before their eyes. Laszlo’s tremendous piano skills were otherworldly, hypnotizing. His hands were a blur. At times it was like two sets playing some of the solos. Walter couldn’t begin to describe what he was seeing, a virtuoso on display. He was speechless, and not just because of the musical performance but also because of the excitement, the entire atmosphere.
Something he didn’t expect on a Wednesday night in The Creo Room.
When the last number of the set ended, thunderous applause met Laszlo and his band. He got up from behind the piano and walked over to the microphone on center stage. He was covered in sweat.
“Thank you, we’ll be right back.”
Laszlo walked off the stage, shook a few hands, and exchanged some kisses on the dance floor before making his way over to the bar.
Walter made room for Laszlo as he crept in, waved the bartender over, and ordered a drink.
“Let me get that,” Walter offered.
Laszlo did not make eye contact at first, then acquiesced and looked at him. “Thank you, you are very kind.”
They received their drinks and both raised their glasses.
“You put on an amazing show. I’ve never quite heard or seen anything like it.”
Laszlo smiled. “That’s our music. They call it bebop.”
“It was incredible. Everyone loved it.”
“Wave of the future.” Laszlo smiled and took the last shot of his drink. “All about swingin’.”
Walter finished his also. “Well, I tell you I’m impressed. A lot of people recommended this place, but I’m glad I finally listened to them. Just yesterday a girlfriend of mine told me to come check your band out.”
Laszlo glanced around the club to see who else was in the audience, beginning to become disinterested in pursuing a conversation with a stranger at the bar. “You don’t say….”
Walter placed his glass back down on the bar. “Yeah, she said I’d have a swell time up here.” He looked straight at Laszlo to see how he’d react to what he said next. “She comes here all the time and loves this place. Hell, maybe you know her. Girl named Caldonia Jones?”
There was an immediate reaction from Laszlo. It was slight, but Walt saw it.
“What, you know her?”
Laszlo raised his glass for a refill. “Never heard of her.” The bartender refilled his drink. “Thanks, Jerome.”
“I could swear it looked like you knew her,” Walter pressed on. “Was supposed to meet her here tonight, actually. Sure you don’t know her?”
Laszlo’s eyes regarded Walter with a cold rage. “What’s your game, mister?”
“I don’t understand.”
Laszlo slammed his glass down. “What do you want? Who are you?”
Walter gave him a studied, innocent look that even his mother would believe. “Who am I? Just a musician, like you.” Well, maybe not his mother.
Laszlo appeared genuinely shocked. “A musician?” He looked him up and down as if to infer it was laughable that Walter Morris would know how to do anything, except maybe be a stand-in for Manton Moreland. “What do you play?”
Walter narrowed his eyes to seem more convincing, baiting him. “The horn.”
“The horn?” Laszlo passed that notion around in his head for a moment. “Why don’t you come up and sit in on a tune or two? Where is your instrument?”
Walter chuckled and feigned embarrassment. “No thanks, I’ll pass.”
Laszlo smirked. “Don’t worry, we won’t embarrass you.”
That made Walter smile. “Naw, I ain’t worried about that. I only play mine when I get paid.” Walter winked at him.
After a brief pause, Laszlo blinked first and looked away. “Well, as exciting as this chat is, I have to get back. It’s been a pleasure, mister…?”
“Morris. Walter Morris.”
“Thank you for the drink.”
Walter didn’t hesitate. “Likewise. I’m sure we’ll speak again real soon.”
Laszlo seemed to understand the implication. “Excuse me.” He turned abruptly and walked down the aisle toward the far wall and into a door leading to the back with a sign on it that read PRIVATE—Band Only.
A very large man probably the width of an oak tree was positioned as a sentry outside the doorway. His complexion gave the impression that he’d died about a month ago, and he wore a huge pair of dark black glasses that obscured any view of his eyes. Not someone Walt thought he could have a productive conversation with. Getting access to the backstage area through that door would be a challenge, sizing up the employee that looked bigger and wider than the actual doorframe. Walter put out his cigarette.
Walt exited The Creo Room and stepped down onto the sidewalk. He meandered away from the front entrance, acting as though he was searching the storefronts for a pharmacy or newsstand. Once he was confident the doorman was busy with other new arrivals, he ducked down into the side alley that separated The Creo Room from its closest neighbor. The narrow side street was the old cobblestoned variety and curved to the right behind the neighboring building, obscuring the dead end.
Walter made sure no one was watching, staying low and moving further inward while sizing up his options. Steam spewed from the middle holes of a sewer cover, obstructing from view what lay around the corner at the back of the alley. He hoped to see some windows to the rooms backstage, but there weren’t any windows along The Creo Room’s side wall.
There was a door by some trash cans and a dumpster. It must have been the stage door for everyone except the public. Walter didn’t want to stay too close; who knew how frequently that door opened or who he might see go in or out. To buy himself a little time to survey the situation, he dropped to one knee to fix one of his spats, concealing himself behind a dumpster, which he peered around.
To his left below the club was an illuminated cellar window. He shifted to his other knee and inched a little nearer to the wall, now playing with his other spat, attempting to get a closer look in the basement window below. He cleared a couple of crumpled newspaper pages that were blocking his view and peered in.
Inside, from w
hat Walter could tell, there were two gentlemen, both white. They were standing in what looked to be a dressing room. Both were extremely well dressed, like they’d just stepped out from a night downtown at the opera. The older of the two closest to the door was in his early sixties, very lanky, and had a top hat in his hand. He impatiently tapped his hat against his hip.
The other man behind him and closest to the window was hidden under a wide-brimmed Stetson hat. He wore a large overcoat with his collar up, completely concealing his face from view. At about six foot seven or eight, he had a very commanding physique hidden under his long overcoat. Unlike his lanky partner, this one was clearly the muscle because of his beefy shape. He stood like a statue, completely motionless.
The dressing room door flew wide open and Laszlo burst in, slamming it shut behind him. The piano player was hyped up as he spoke with the tall lanky man who was waiting for him. Laszlo’s hands waved frantically and accentuated every word. He grew angrier and was beginning to yell, waving his arms around, spit flying from his mouth. From Walter’s narrow vantage point, he couldn’t see the tall man’s reaction. Laszlo snatched a copy of the late edition of the newspaper from his dressing table and pointed furiously at the front-page headline, which was the Empire State Building parachute jump. Laszlo then pointed upward to the club level, gesturing back and forth, as if throwing something in the older man’s face.
Walt did his best to understand what was being said, closely watching Laszlo’s mouth to see his lips moving. He’d learned a very handy trick years ago, lip reading. In his line of work, a rare talent like that was invaluable. Just like Superman, Walter had his super power too. But he couldn’t understand a darn thing Laszlo was shouting. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he was having such a problem understanding. Then it hit him, like a falling piano, what the problem was. It was another language. Finally Laszlo stopped speaking, and breathing heavily, he waited for a reply.
The old man turned to gaze at his taller colleague behind him and Walter was able to catch a glimpse of his face. What struck Walt immediately were his eyes. One was cloudy with a scar above reaching far below the socket, but moreover they were evil. Black, empty pools of eternity that contained a calmness, a death.
Walter wanted to look away before those eyes met his.
But he knew from his experience that at nighttime, if someone was inside with the lights on, they couldn’t usually see something outside in the darkness. It was next to impossible. So Walter stood his ground and continued watching the little vignette play out.
A smile appeared on the lanky man’s face and he turned back toward Laszlo. He acknowledged the bigger man, pointing his thumb up to his friend. The piano player’s anger fell away and his skin paled. His face became horrified and he stumbled backward, knocking into the dressing table and dropping the paper.
Laszlo spoke one word that Walter was able to read and he repeated it out loud. “Totten core? Is that what he said?”
Without warning, a large black hand gripped Walter by the shoulder and all at once Walt was in the air and slammed against the wall on the opposite side alley. He fell like a sack of potatoes onto the ground.
The detective was lifted up again, this time by the throat, into the air by the mountainous Oak Tree from inside the club. At the angle he was being held, he could see down behind the dark glasses and into the man’s eyes. They had a milky, foggy quality to them, like the pupils of a corpse. It was quite the contrast to his dry, ashy, cracked pale black skin, which made the startling eyes stand out all the more.
Great, he thought, another new friend to play with.
Oak Tree held Walter above him by the neck like he was a ragdoll. Dangling there in the air, his large hand looked like an adult’s around a child’s little teddy bear.
Behind the mountain stood the club’s head of security, a slimy zoot-suit-wearing fellow by the name of Luther. He was a shorter, light-skinned man that may have had Spanish blood in him judging by his looks. He had light brown hair that matched his skin; it was relaxed and perfectly straight, parted right down the middle and matted to his head. A gold chain ran from his suit pocket up to a button on the jacket.
Walter gathered his bearings and accessed his situation, his eyes moving between Oak and Luther. He found his voice to be a tad hoarse when he said to Oak Tree, “Uh…hi there, big fella…,” which fell on deaf ears. Hell, looking into those vague eyes, Walt thought there might be nothing much going on upstairs.
Luther popped his head into view from behind Oak Tree. “What ya doin’ here, fool?!”
Walt took a deep breath and cautiously went on. In his best Jack Benny, he started with a slick and confident, soothing tone. “Well! I was trying to correct my spat, you see, which had started to bunch up to the left because they’re cheap spats. Got ’em from my ex-secretary who really didn’t like me. Anyway, I was adjusting my spat, when your man here, uh, um…,” he looked at Oak, “hi there,” then back at Luther, “…all of a sudden the son of Kong here started messin’ with my equilibrium. And then I was on the other side, against this wall here, looking at the brick decay in the gutter.”
Luther wasn’t impressed by Walter’s explanation. “What’s your spats gots to do with that window right there?”
Walter played dumb. “What window?”
“What window?” Luther repeated in a mocking tone.
Walter’s face reddened and it got harder to breathe when Oak raised him even higher, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Do it.”
Oak Tree drove his fist hard into Walter’s stomach then dropped him. Walter collapsed to the ground in a daze, coughing, trying to suck the air back into his collapsed chest.
Luther stepped in and snatched Walter’s wallet from his pocket and placed his shoe on Morris’ forehead. He scanned through the contents. “Walter Morris? You…wait…” Luther kept looking. “You got all kinds of IDs up in here. You a private investigator? Whatcha doing here at The Creo Room, brucka?”
Walter tried to speak but was still coughing and unable.
“What’s that?” said Luther. “I asked you a question, fool.”
Walter cleared his throat and made sure his head was still connected to his body before he spoke. “I—I just came up to hear…to hear this new bebop everybody is talkin’ about….”
“What!”
Walter again pled ignorance. “And what you talkin’ about? And who the hell is you?” Walt’s mustered his most convincing outraged voice his throat could manage under the circumstances, even executing an authentic falsetto to convey his unwitting shock.
Luther stepped back and made a click with his teeth. On cue, Oak put his foot on Walter’s chest and applied pressure like a vice, pressing his back into the uneven bricks below.
“You lyin’ to us, boy?” Luther’s eyes narrowed at Walter.
Barely able to speak, Walt countered, “Now, why would I do that?”
Oak applied even more pressure.
Luther took the cigarette out of his mouth and used the Pall Mall between his fingers to punctuate his next point as he wagged it at Walter. “Let’s get something straight. You come around here again and start askin’ about shit that’s none of your business, my man here is gonna experiment on your bone structure. Got it?”
The pressure at this point was all he could bear, so Walter nodded.
Luther responded with a huge, gold-toothed grin. “Good, you’re getting it.” He motioned to Oak.
Walter saw black as he was thrown one-handed at least ten feet. He flopped, unconscious, onto the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley.
Chapter 7.5
BAD DREAMS
A hazy series of images played through his head in a blurred vision of a dream.
A little boy that Walter struggled to recognize sat playing jacks on the dirty floor of an uneven and cracked hal
lway in an old apartment building.
Out of the darkness a man emerged and ambled up to the small boy, and they began to converse. The boy’s face came into focus and Walter recognized his little brother from so very long ago. The boy nodded and the older white man extended his hand, which the boy accepted in his small one.
The child was helped off the ground, and together the two headed down the dimly lit hall hand in hand toward the basement.
Walter heard an omnipresent voice, asking him questions, wanting to pry. “What happened to your brother, Walter?”
He heard his teenage voice answer with an uncertain resonance. “The boogey man got him, sir.”
Before they disappeared down the stairs, the older man turned his head and Walt saw the terrifying face of child-killer Albert Fish.
Walter remembered shouting for his brother to stop, to come back, but the harsh shrills of the prepubescent teenager didn’t stop his little brother from walking away with that demon of a man. His head turned and, looking toward a young Walter, Fish smirked at him and waved goodbye. It was this sneer that shaped young Morris’s life. That single image locked inside Walter’s young brain. The events after that were to fuel the next eighteen years of Walter Eugene Morris’s life on up to his present circumstances.
Instantly Walter heard the voice, the one that haunted his thoughts, his dreams, and his nightmares. The sound he could never forget. That calm and soothing voice that haunted him forever.
“First I stripped him naked. My, how he did kick, bite, and scratch. I didn’t fuck him, though, I could have, had I wished. He died a virgin.”
Young Walter’s eyes welled up.
Chapter 8
DRUNK DUMP
Walter very slowly opened his eyes. It took him a couple of minutes to fully come around and realize where he was. He was laying on his back on an uncomfortable metal cot, staring up at a dank stone ceiling that was covered in a layer of peeling, century-old paint. He recognized his surroundings at once.
