by Ray Celestin
‘Let’s just say this is my last chance,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m going to do this. With or without you. What do you say?’
Ida turned to look at Michael. He gave her a look back.
‘We’ll have to discuss it,’ Ida said.
‘Let me know by the end of today,’ Gabriel said. He pointed to a black Caddie parked up a little way down the street. ‘You two need a ride?’
They shook their heads. He tipped his hat at them, got in the car and drove off, heading west. They watched him go, then headed into the subway.
‘What do you think of his plan?’ Michael asked as they walked down the steps.
‘It might work. But more likely it’ll get us all killed. He’s only doing it ’cos he’s backed into a corner and desperate as hell. That’s not the right way to go into these things.’
‘And we’re not backed into a corner and desperate as hell?’ Michael asked.
‘We’re level-headed,’ Ida said. ‘He’s an unknown quantity.’
They came out into the ticket hall, pushed through the turnstiles and walked down to the platform. As they stood there waiting for the train, Ida stared at Michael, saw how old and weary he looked.
‘Time’s running out for us as well as Gabriel,’ he said. ‘We know all the reasons why everything happened, but we’ve got no evidence to set Tom free.’
‘You’re saying we should go along with what he’s suggesting?’ Ida said. She was surprised and concerned Michael was feeling hopeless enough to consider it. ‘Setting a trap for a gang of killers with made-up bait? Either one of us gets killed or one of them gets killed, or we all get killed, and none of that helps any of us much.’
Michael nodded, but she could see her words hadn’t had any effect on him. Down the line, a train was rattling towards the station, its lights flickering in the gloom.
‘Two things,’ he said. ‘First, we don’t know what’s going on with Tom. For all we know, his lawyer could have got him to change his plea to guilty. And we both know the longer this goes on for, the more likely Genovese or someone plans a jailhouse hit. So maybe acting fast is the safest way to go.’
‘And two?’
‘And two,’ said Michael. ‘Gabriel’s going to do this with or without us. You heard him. Whatever it is that’s haunting him, whatever pressure, whatever bloodlust – it’s going to push him all the way. Let’s say he does it and kills Faron. There goes our alternate suspect. Don’t you wanna be there to make sure he doesn’t mess it all up?’
He stared at Ida, and she saw a reflection of the same desperation she’d seen in Gabriel’s eyes, the same disturbing anguish, and as the train roared into the station, she wondered at the power that was motivating them both.
PART EIGHTEEN
‘Why should music stand still? Nothing else stands still. Who can say that the whole United States and the musical mind should stand still? Music now is in skilled hands. It’s going to move along.’
DUKE ELLINGTON,
CARNEGIE HALL PROGRAM NOTES, 1947
46
Wednesday 12th, 11.00 a.m.
Costello was in the Astoria’s barbershop having his daily shave and hot-towel treatment when Gabriel walked in. He motioned for Gabriel to wait while the barber finished the job. Gabriel sat in one of the leather armchairs lined up along the back wall and Costello watched him out of the corner of his eye. The outfit’s best fixer was in a sorry state. The same jitteriness Costello had noticed in Gabriel the last time they’d met had exploded all over the man. He looked edgy, distracted, exhausted. What the hell had happened to him?
The barber threw a hot towel over Costello’s face and everything went black. The steam started to soothe his still-inflamed sinuses. He tried to think relaxing thoughts but couldn’t quite manage it. Five minutes later the towel was whipped off, the barber patted him with cologne and Costello rose. He slipped the barber two twenties and walked over to Gabriel.
‘How’s the cold?’ Gabriel asked, rising.
‘Still got it,’ said Costello. ‘Nearly two weeks now. Can’t seem to shake the damn thing.’
They headed through the exit and down the corridor that led to the hotel’s reception. It was a long, echoing corridor, made of rose marble that the cleaners kept perfectly shining.
‘What did you want to see me about?’ Costello asked. His voice rebounded off the marble walls, the reverberations making it sound hollow, flat, airy.
‘Can we talk here?’ Gabriel asked.
‘We’re the only two people in a marble corridor,’ said Costello. ‘Yeah, we can talk.’
‘I need you to give me the OK for something.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Faron,’ said Gabriel. ‘He’s got your money.’
Costello stopped walking, turned to look at him. Costello knew all about Gabriel’s obsession with Faron, how he’d spent years looking for the man, how he’d initially got a job with the family to trace him. And now Gabriel was claiming this same man was back from the dead and had stolen Costello’s money. He wondered if Gabriel’s problems were deeper than he’d thought. He wondered if Gabriel was cracking up.
‘How’s Faron got my money?’ Costello asked.
‘Benny stashed it at a spot in East Harlem. I got there a few days late. By the time I arrived, Faron had turned up and already stolen it. Faron’s after that drug pusher, Cleveland. The same guy Genovese’s after. Which is making me think they’re working together.’
Gabriel told Costello a story about a congressman Genovese had his claws into, a congressman who was being blackmailed for something he’d done out in Italy during the war. Costello had heard the man’s name. A rising star. He put it together with Genovese’s plan to infiltrate the unions out in California, and it all clicked. This must be the other part of Genovese’s plan. This congressman was going to be the key to how Genovese would offer the studios protection.
‘I’ve been hunting Faron down these last few days and I can’t find him. No one’s talking. No one knows anything.’
‘You want me to ask around?’
‘No,’ said Gabriel. ‘I want to smoke him out.’
Costello eyed him, noted once more what a state he was in.
‘What have you got planned?’ Costello asked.
‘I’ve got a pal in the Narcotics Division. He’s let slip that I’ve been asking for passenger lists out of Liberty Airport, looking for a guy named Gene Cleveland. Genovese’s men in the division’ll check the passenger lists themselves. They’ll see there’s a Gene Cleveland booked on a Pan-Am flight out to France tonight because I’ve already bought a ticket in his name with a fake ID. They’ll pass the information on. Faron and whoever else’ll come down there. We’ll be waiting.’
Costello searched for weaknesses in the plan, oversights. He assessed the risks.
‘An airport sounds dangerous,’ he said. ‘Lot of heat. Lot of witnesses.’
‘Not if he’s catching a red-eye flight,’ Gabriel replied. ‘Place’ll be deserted. You know what the roads leading up to it are like. Nearest precinct’s a fifteen-minute drive. You give me the say-so, and I’ll go down there.’
Gabriel stared at him, waited for an answer.
‘You think Genovese stole my money?’ Costello asked.
‘No,’ said Gabriel. ‘I think Faron stole it, and he’s keeping it. It’s just we can use Cleveland to lure him out. Otherwise, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to find it. No one knows where Faron is, where he’s hiding. Unless you wanna go and beat it out of Genovese?’
Costello weighed up the two million dollars against Gabriel in a shoot-out with a bunch of muscle hired by Genovese. Getting the money back versus starting a war.
‘If you get caught,’ said Costello, ‘this comes straight back to me. It’ll look like I sent you out there to attack Genovese’s men.’
‘I know,’ said Gabriel. ‘That’s why I came here to get your permission.’
Costello was torn. He took his cigarettes out of h
is pocket, lit up. He assessed the variables. He could evaluate everything in the equation except Genovese and Gabriel, the two most important variables of all.
‘I can’t give it to you, Gabriel,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to risk it. Not when you’ve got your blood up about Faron. I know he killed your sister, but you can’t start a war over it.’
‘I’m doing this to protect us,’ Gabriel countered. ‘It might get your money back too. Sooner or later, Frank, you’re going to have to face up to Genovese. Better do it now, while City Hall is on your side. While your two million might still be out there.’
Costello knew that Gabriel was right, that at some point he’d probably have to face up to Genovese, or risk losing everything. But he also knew the longer he put that day back, the more chance there was of Genovese somehow destroying himself before it ever came. Sometimes procrastination was the surest bet.
‘No wars, Gabriel,’ he said. ‘War is how you get in the newspapers for all the wrong reasons, wars is when the Feds come after you. Right now all they care about is Commies. Let’s keep it that way.’
‘Appeasement?’
‘It’ll work till I don’t need it to work no more,’ said Costello.
He watched as Gabriel tried to suppress his anger, that same anger Costello had noticed in the man over a decade ago, when he was still burning with hatred over his sister’s death.
‘So be it,’ Gabriel said finally.
There was a grim determination on his face. Gabriel might have come here for permission, but Costello could see that if he didn’t get it, he’d go ahead with his plan anyway.
‘If you need to kill Faron to protect yourself,’ said Costello, ‘I understand. But if you go up against any of Genovese’s men, I’ll have to cut you loose. You’ll be running for the rest of your life.’
‘I know.’
Costello nodded. ‘Then go do what you gotta do.’
They walked down the rest of the corridor, their footsteps shrill against the marble. When they reached the hotel’s lobby they nodded at each other and Gabriel headed for the exit. Costello took a toke on his cigarette and watched the man disappear among the crowds. Then Costello walked through into the bar, asked the bartender for the phone, stubbed out his cigarette.
There’d be a lot going on in New York that night. Glaser had sent him complimentary tickets to a Louis Armstrong gig, the papers would go to press with the decision the movie producers had made, and over the river in Jersey, a battle would be played out that might start a war.
Costello got his black book from his pocket, found Vito Genovese’s number over in Middletown, picked up the receiver and dialed.
He felt bad ratting out Gabriel to Genovese, sending him into a trap, but it had to be done. Maintain the peace, trust in the money, in the fact that as long as everyone was making dollars, war was in no one’s interest. Wasn’t that the beauty of capitalism?
47
Wednesday 12th, 10.31 p.m.
Louis stood alone outside the stage door, waiting to be let into the concert hall. There was snow in the air, falling to earth, in the black puddles at his feet, sailing across the reflections of the lights up above.
The door opened to reveal a fresh-faced young white kid in a cardigan. Recognition flashed across the kid’s face, then a smile.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ said the kid. ‘This way, please.’
He held up a hand and Louis smiled and followed him through the entrance, down a long, cement corridor lined with pipes. They turned a corner and the kid opened a door onto a function room packed with people and buzzing with backstage chaos. There were tables of canapés laid out, trays of champagne flutes, red and white wine.
‘Your dressing room’s just over there,’ said the kid, pointing to a door on the far side of the room.
As they made their way towards it, people stopped Louis to say hello: friends, well-wishers, journalists, musicians. They slipped on through the crowd and came face-to-face with two men standing next to each other, wine glasses in their hands, who paused their conversation on seeing Louis. The first was ‘Big’ Sid Catlett, who’d be playing the drums that night, the second was a younger man in horn-rimmed glasses and a goatee beard; Dizzie Gillespie – one of Louis’ most vocal critics, who’d called Louis out for pandering to whites, for playing the Tom, for being everything the younger musicians were reacting against. Although they’d met earlier in the year and had made up with each other, there was still a frostiness between them, a distance.
‘Louis,’ said Catlett.
‘Sid,’ said Louis, stopping even though he didn’t want to, even as he was wondering what Gillespie was doing there.
‘Diz said he wanted to come along,’ Catlett said, gesturing to the man standing next to him. ‘So I comped him.’
Louis nodded. Gillespie nodded. Catlett had played with Gillespie on a number of bebop recordings, was one of the few older drummers who could easily transition between the old styles and the new. Louis noted Gillespie had gone to Catlett, rather than Louis, for the free tickets.
‘Cool,’ said Louis. ‘How’s tricks, Diz?’
‘Yeah, good,’ Gillespie shrugged. ‘Looking forward to hearing you play.’
‘Well, that’s grand,’ Louis said. ‘I’ll catch up with you after the show.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Gillespie. ‘Break a leg.’
Louis nodded, turned to the kid, wanting to get away from the awkward, icy exchange as quickly as possible. As he and the kid moved on through the crowd, thoughts of his luckless streak filled Louis’ mind, all the signs telling him his time in the sun was up. What better sign could he have been sent than crossing paths with the ambassador of the young guard so close to going on stage?
Eventually, they got to the dressing room, and Louis slipped inside, closed the door. It was a long room, with sofas against one wall, and mirrors and dressing tables opposite them. There was a clothes rail at the far end, and Louis saw his suit hanging up, freshly cleaned and pressed, still wrapped up in the laundry’s cellophane. Glaser’s meticulous planning. His manager would be at the concert that night, box seats. It was unusual for him to show up to gigs, but then it was an unusual gig.
On one of the dressing tables Louis saw a card with his name on it. He walked over, put his trumpet case down, sat. He noticed a sheet of paper left next to the card. The set list for the night. Louis picked it up and scanned it quickly.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened and Ernie Anderson appeared. The young promoter glowed with boyish excitement, animated by that same jitteriness he’d displayed in Glaser’s office the previous week. Louis wondered if it was on account of him, or if he was always like this.
‘How is everything, Mr Armstrong?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s great,’ said Louis. ‘Thanks for arranging all the music. All the fine people. It’s really something.’
Anderson beamed. ‘You’re happy with the playlist, how it’s all going to go?’
‘Sure, pops. Sure.’
‘Good. I thought you’d like to know, it’s standing room only now. There’s just one thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Sidney Bechet’s called in sick. Said he can’t make it.’ Anderson’s brightness dimmed a touch on giving Louis the news.
Bechet. He’d been asked to sit in with the band, join in on a few numbers. Louis wondered if it was fate again, or just the usual ego tricks from his old colleague. The man had been pulling the same stunts back in New Orleans twenty-five years ago.
‘That’s cool,’ said Louis. ‘We’ll manage without him.’
‘I think we will,’ said Anderson.
He grinned and left the room, taking with him his nervous energy, making the place seem suddenly empty, lonely. Louis had planned to put on his suit then go straight back out into the reception room, mingle, joke, but as he sat there alone, with his coat still on, staring at his reflecti
on in the halo of lightbulbs that ringed the mirror, he hesitated.
Bechet had cancelled last minute, Gillespie had told him to break a leg. The nervousness Louis had experienced on the ride over returned. He hadn’t been nervous before a gig in years. Because for years he’d known he was the best musician on the stage, that no one in the audience was expecting much. The last show he’d played before this was in a tumble-down old hall in Altoona, Pennsylvania, where the hotel owner had warned them not to walk the streets at night. But here he was about to perform with some of the greatest musicians on the planet, in front of one of the most discerning crowds there was. Top billing in the last-chance saloon. Right in the middle of a spell of ill-fate that made him feel like he was about to fight history single-handed.
He paused. Maybe that was the trick. To fight it. To ignore the black cats, the spilled salt, the pennies found tail up, all the other signs that said you didn’t control your own fate, and try and forge your own future regardless.
The door opened and two people stepped in. Jack Teagarden and Bobby Hackett, the band’s trombonist and its second trumpet player. They were laughing at something and were brought up abruptly when they saw Louis.
‘Oh, shit, Louis,’ said Teagarden. ‘Didn’t know you were in here.’
‘That’s cool,’ said Louis.
The two men grinned, recommenced chatting. On their heels came the rest of the band – Cary, Catlett, Haggart, Hucko. They came in buzzing with noise, warmed the place up with their chatter and laughs, and Louis felt relieved to have people around him. Fellow musicians. He thought back to his Chicago days, to his old buddies from New Orleans, to his mentors, long gone now.
He rose and walked over to the clothes rail, grabbed his suit, brought it back to the dressing table. He took the cellophane wrapper off and its dull, synthetic smell wafted through the air. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror.
Behind him the others were putting their suits on, chatting, sharing cigarettes whose smoke was forming a fug under the room’s low ceiling. Louis opened his trumpet case, assembled the instrument, checked it, ran through his exercises. His fingers slipped on the valves. Sweat. He looked around the people collected in the dressing room – no one else was sweating, and there was a rumble coming from the air conditioners over the door. He grabbed one of his handkerchiefs, wiped down his fingers and the trumpet valves. He ran through his exercises once more.
