Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  Despite my anger, I attempted to cool down and said merely, ‘Lenny’s my buddy, Sammy!’

  The doorman drew up in a new Chevy sedan and hopped out, holding the door open for Sammy. Then, in the same friendly voice he’d used to greet me, Sammy said, ‘I’ve got to get going, Jack. So long, nice ta welcome ya to the El Marinero. See ya round.’ He shifted behind the wheel with some effort while his two thugs climbed into the back. The doorman closed the car door and, without thanking him, Sammy slammed the car into gear and dropped his foot down hard on the gas, to send the Chevrolet on its way, waltzing its rear tyres. It was as if he were using the car to compensate for his broken body.

  I reported the incident in the driveway to Lenny, going into detail with what had been said. ‘Yeah, Jack, that’s Sammy. You got the bastard to a T. Gravel voice, lotsa different tones, that’s him. Quiet, that’s normal . . . he raise his voice, you gotta watch out ’cause he’s about to snap. Then comes the yellin’ and the threats. Just as sudden, back comes the calm. He all over the place like a mad dog’s breakfast! Glad ya didn’t bust him a good one in the mouth. The two hoods, they Chicago soldiers, they dangerous.’

  ‘Christ, Lenny, he’s bad enough to have around, but those two in their gangster suits . . .’

  ‘Contracts for food for the Firebird about to be signed, so Chicago thought Sammy might need a little help, maybe leaning on the wholesale suppliers. That’s how they explain it, anyhow. You kin bet that ain’t all of it. I’ll speak to Sammy. In some things, he gotta listen to me. I’ll tell him to lay off you, no exceptions. Messing wid you, he’s gettin’ into high-roller territory, GAWP Bar. Chicago ain’t gonna tolerate that.’

  In the weeks and months that followed until the completion of the Firebird, it wasn’t too difficult to avoid Sammy most of the time. The food business seemed to take him away from the casino a fair bit and I was also to learn that he was involved in the Chicago Mob’s slot-machine business. Now, after the war, they were supplying new machines, made in a plant they owned in Detroit, to most of the casinos in town. This business was more than just a sideline but it could be tricky, one Mobster organisation dealing with another, hence the need for Sammy’s ‘protection’: his two brown suits with the permanent scowls. When they were around, it was easy to see him coming, and avoid him and his two hulks. A weak gesture maybe, but Sammy Schischka was avoided by most members of staff. I’m certain he noticed their reaction and liked being regarded as a nasty piece of work. Imparting fear was, after all, his new profession.

  The two hoods had developed a special walk to keep pace with him, a kind of rolling wobble. Had I not been warned that they were dangerous, I’d have considered them laughable. The left side of their suit jackets always seemed to bulge a little, as if to remind everyone that they were the real McCoy. As Lenny said, ‘Not nice guys, those two.’

  Occasionally we did meet; usually unexpectedly, in the Longhorn Room. Sammy would ensure he was impossible to ignore, and would make a point of coming over, offering to buy me a drink, always ‘forgetting’ I didn’t drink alcohol. ‘Yeah,’ he’d growl, ‘yeah . . . maybe ya oughta try booze sometime.’ It was as if his words arrived ready-mixed into the gravel of his growl. The kitchen staff learned to interpret the different tones of his growl, usually standing close and often to attention, some plainly deferential, some few simply straining to hear. He seemed to create a permanent sense of unease around himself.

  Sam never enunciated his surname clearly, and if he introduced himself, the name came out in a gargling hiss. While it was fairly straightforward – ‘Shish-ka’ – people who dealt with him in business, often gangsters themselves, were reluctant to use it, in case they got it wrong. Behind his back, they referred to him as Sam the Snake, a title he knew of and evidently relished. He was addressed by the hotel staff as Mr Sam, and only Bridgett called him Mr Schischka. It was clear Sammy interpreted her formal tone and careful pronunciation of his name as yet another example of her disdain and, having experienced her coldly polite manner myself when I first arrived, I could almost sympathise with him.

  Only Lenny and I called him Sammy, and I expect I was only permitted to do so because we’d known each other during the war. He seemed to have entirely forgotten our first meeting in the driveway; it was as though it had never occurred.

  Bridgett was initially much too professional in her manner to offer an opinion on Sammy. Her attitude towards him was cool and efficient, and she never seemed fearful or anxious in his presence. I think it was probably this that riled Sammy the most. ‘Dames,’ he was fond of growling, ‘gotta learn to keep their legs open and their mouths shut.’

  Not too long after the incident with the kitchen hand, Sammy attacked another staff member with a cleaver, taking exception to the way one of the Negro men was trimming fat from steak to prepare it for barbecuing. Being from Chicago, the meat capital of America and, furthermore, trained in the catering business, Sammy regarded himself as a meat expert. He hadn’t liked the fact that the man was using a cleaver rather than a butcher’s knife. In a sudden rage, he’d snatched the cleaver from the man’s hand and brought it down hard across the fingers of his left hand, removing the middle three.

  Sammy, it seemed, showed no respect for anyone he didn’t regard as a hotel patron, but was particularly disrespectful to the coloured staff: the Mexicans, who mostly served as maids, and the black folk, who mostly worked in the kitchens, where Sammy felt he reigned supreme.

  I soon got to know the staff and, in particular, the kitchen workers. When the four o’clock kitchen shift came on duty to prepare for dinner, I’d sit down and play several brackets of jazz, and rehearse any new numbers that had recently become popular on the hit parade. This was a quiet period in the piano bar, when the cleaners were preparing the room for the evening. It was outside my official hours but, after the marvellous reception they’d given me at my audition, I wanted to repay them in some way. I let it be known that the staff were free to give me requests for any special occasions, such as someone’s birthday. It also gave me the chance to play some straight jazz, which was always popular. As a result, I was on the best of terms with the kitchen folk, especially the head chef, known always as Chef Napoleon Nelson, an excellent combination of names that no white family would have had the courage to choose. I was to learn that he was invariably addressed by his full title, even in the most casual circumstances and even outside his kitchen. He always spoke to me freely, knowing it would go no further, unless we agreed it was a problem that could be fixed by Miss Bridgett or Mr Lenny without Sammy’s knowledge. He saw me as a friend and fellow jazz man, and not as a white guy on the casino staff.

  Our friendship began when I met Chef Napoleon Nelson by chance away from the El Marinero. As a child, I’d always enjoyed walking with my mom. We’d spent most weekends and the school holidays getting to know places on foot, which also gave me an opportunity to observe birds, an early interest that had never really left me. I’d walked the streets and parks of London, and increased my knowledge of water birds and much else besides, and from the second day at the El Marinero, I had begun to explore Las Vegas. My shift at the GAWP Bar ended around two in the morning, so I usually rose at ten-thirty and was out and about shortly before noon.

  I’d taken the apartment I’d mentioned to Lenny. It was quiet and cheap and, instead of renting it, I’d put down a deposit, intending to buy it. It was in a fairly rundown part of town, quiet during the day, with scruffy apartment buildings, auto repair shops and the like, and a few bars frequented by working men, but it was reasonably close to the partially constructed Flamingo and Firebird casinos. I guess the local realtors and developers were not yet entirely convinced by the two new casinos emerging on Highway 91. Though quite large and solidly built, my new home was no luxury apartment, and Lenny had been true to his word and sent the casino odd-job guy to paint it and install one of those newfangled dishwashing machines as a personal gift. As I seldom, if ever, ate at home, it was a kind bu
t pointless gesture, and the gleaming white-enamelled machine gave the freshly painted old-fashioned kitchen a somewhat professional look.

  On one of my morning walks a week after I’d moved into the apartment, I’d ventured into the Westside, the part of town largely inhabited by Negro people. I slowly realised that there were no white people there, but, to my surprise, there seemed to be no resentment at my intrusion; people smiled as I passed and some even greeted me. I’d been walking long enough to build up a thirst, and a little food would have been welcome, too. I’d usually grab something to eat at a bakery or some such, as a late breakfast or early lunch. Soon enough, I came across a bar from which I could hear good blues music being played on a piano. I decided I’d have a hamburger and fries, something you could get at any neighbourhood bar in Las Vegas, and I guessed the Westside would be no exception.

  I entered to discover a lone musician playing and singing the blues at an ancient upright piano; singing very well indeed. Several men sat around drinking beer and nodded as I entered. I ordered a sarsaparilla, with a hamburger and fries.

  ‘We got hamburger, the best on the Westside; fries also, but we don’t do no soft ’cept Coke ’n’ Pepsi. Beer we got, pale ale, India pale, red ale, brown ale, stout, barley wine, Bud, Coors, Busch and Kentucky bourbon . . .’ the barman shook his head, ‘but, nossir, we ain’t got no sars-a-pa-rilla.’

  Several of the men sitting around grinned and one of them said, ‘Now ain’t that the truth, brother.’

  This brought some laughter, and caused the piano player to stop and glance over at me. ‘My, my, if it ain’t Mr Jack,’ he beamed, obviously surprised to see me in his part of town. ‘How ya doin’, sir?’ he asked. Puzzled, I turned to look at him and he gave a deep laugh and said, ‘I work in the kitchen at the El Marinero, Mr Jack. I’m Chef Napoleon Nelson.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, surprised, not recognising him without his chef’s toque, then added, ‘you play good blues, sir.’

  I saw one or two heads jerk back at the ‘sir’. Chef Napoleon Nelson chuckled. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Jack, that a fine complee-ment coming from such as you.’

  I grinned. ‘Thank you.’

  He turned to the others. ‘You cats ain’t heard nothing till you gone heard mah friend here, Mr Jack Spayd, play “St James Infirmary”, maybe also “St Louis”.’ He turned back to me and nodded at the piano. ‘She’s old but she’s in tune,’ he said, half rising. ‘Maybe while they fixin’ your fries, you like to play some for us, Mr Jack?’

  ‘Please, call me Jack,’ I said, laughing. ‘You play pretty good blues yourself, Chef Napoleon Nelson. That’s what pulled me in.’

  He laughed too. ‘I cain’t play it like what you done play, Jack. These cats don’t believe no white man can play black folks’ music. They gonna have themselves a big surprise.’

  This caused a general laugh, but still I hesitated. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude . . .’

  ‘White man got hisself nice manners,’ one of the men remarked.

  ‘Now, you just wait and see, Booker T.,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson called to the guy who’d paid me the compliment. He rose from the piano. ‘Now, you cats listen good, we got ourselves somethin’ special comin’ up.’

  The ancient upright was a little tinny but, as Chef Napoleon Nelson said, in tune. When I’d played the two blues numbers, they all stood up and clapped; then the barman called me over to eat at the bar and Chef Napoleon Nelson took over at the piano. I finally got up to leave, and pulled out my wallet to pay. ‘The burger and fries were excellent, thank you.’

  ‘Ain’t no charge, Mr Sars-a-parilla,’ the barman laughed. ‘You already paid your dues good as can ever be! My, my, dat ’firmary somethin’ else.’

  ‘Hey, you ain’t gonna go widout playin’ some more?’ Booker T. called in a pleading voice, and the other men murmured approvingly.

  I glanced at Chef Napoleon Nelson, who looked over at the little guy who’d called out. ‘Booker T., he a railway man an’ he ain’t ’fraid to open his big mouth. “All aboard what’s going aboard!”’ he mimicked.

  This brought a big laugh. ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ someone said again, grinning at Booker T., a small, scrawny man with a disarming grin that seemed rather too wide for his face. Chef Napoleon Nelson turned back to me and said quietly, ‘If it ain’t imposin’ too much, Jack?’

  ‘Sure,’ I grinned, happy he’d paid me the compliment of using my first name. ‘If you’d like me to, but that blues number you just played, “Gamblin Man” by Mr Washboard Sam, why, it doesn’t get any better than that.’

  ‘Hey, white man knows his stuff!’ someone else called.

  Chef Napoleon Nelson made to rise from the piano. ‘No, no, please stay,’ I said, removing my harmonica from my pocket. ‘We’ll do this together.’

  ‘Hey, hey, my goodness!’ Chef Napoleon Nelson grinned. ‘What I believe we got ourselves here, gennelmen, is a nice music-making surprise!’

  We began to jam and I played for maybe an hour, while he sang the blues and played piano. When he eventually had to leave for work at the El Marinero, two hours had passed and the bar was standing-room only. The pavement outside was packed with people, leaning through the windows or propped in the doorway. The applause was deafening. As we left, the bartender, Mr James Jefferson Baker, called out, ‘Hey, Mr Sars-a-parilla, nex’ time you come see us, we got ourselves sars-a-parilla for sure, you hear!’

  Chef Napoleon Nelson subsequently invited me to come back to join a group that played in a local church hall late afternoon each Sunday. ‘We call it “The Resurrection Brothers”, because folk eat der Sunday dinner after church, then have themselves a nice nap, then they resurrect theyselves to come back and play or lissen. Jack, you like to come visit Sunday four o’clock, maybe you decide you like to jam wid the brothers, you mos’ welcome.’

  Sunday was my day off and I jumped at the chance, deciding not to mention it to Lenny. I didn’t feel it was necessary to explain to anyone what I did on my day off.

  Chef Napoleon Nelson assured me the black kitchen staff could be relied on to keep their mouths shut about my Sunday foray into the Westside to play with The Resurrection Brothers’ jazz band. I suppose neither of us wanted to acknowledge just how unusual the arrangement was. Also, we never discussed work on those Sundays, either before or after a jamming session, even when, as occurred often enough, things were really bad in the kitchen with Sammy Schischka.

  Sammy’s violent eruptions at the kitchen staff were, of course, not infrequent and one particularly memorable one occurred four months after I’d joined the El Marinero. I’d been practising that afternoon, taking requests from the staff as I always did when Sammy was absent or out of town. I’d developed the habit of dropping into the kitchen to share a cup of Java with Chef Napoleon Nelson or his assistant, who the rest of the kitchen staff referred to as Mr Joel, the title of Chef belonging exclusively to Chef Napoleon Nelson. Incidentally, the kitchen staff all referred to me as Mr Sars-a-parilla after my jam session on the Westside, and although I’d asked them to call me Jack, I was to learn that once you got a nickname, it was for keeps. What’s more, the name proved convenient because if any of the staff happened to mention me for whatever reason, Sammy would have no way of knowing to whom they referred. Only Chef Napoleon Nelson called me Jack.

  Sammy and his two minders had left for San Diego on this particular day, and I was having my afternoon cup of Java with Chef Napoleon Nelson in his tiny cubicle at the far end of the kitchen. Sammy’s absences were always happy occasions, with the staff smiling or laughing as they went about their work. But on this afternoon, Chef Napoleon Nelson wasn’t his usual ebullient self, and the atmosphere was muted and oppressive.

  After several minutes, I asked him if something was wrong, or if there was anything I could do to help.

  The head chef shook his head slowly. ‘This ain’t for you, Jack.’

  Normally I would have accepted this with a nod, but he looked so concerned and confused
I decided to persist. Chef Napoleon Nelson wasn’t the confused type. No head chef worth his salt is. ‘Sure,’ I replied, ‘but sometimes it helps just to talk.’

  After a long pause, he said quietly, ‘You know that Mr Sam has to make all the decision, even about the smallest thing. He got to be informed. It got so ever-body they scared to do der job. Nobody kin do nothing right, Jack. Mr Sam, he always shoutin’ at somebody all the livelong day. He convinced we all stealin’ from the kitchen. Two days back, he count all the forks! Nobody know how many forks we got, not even the scullery maid. “You fuckin’ niggers stealing mah forks. There’s fifty-six missin’! Everyone gonna have his pay cheque docked fifty cents!” he shout at us.’

  ‘So, that’s it? The forks?’ I asked. I made a mental note to mention the incident to Bridgett, so that the staff didn’t have their pay docked. Fifty cents isn’t peanuts to a poor family.

  ‘No, that ain’t it, Jack.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mr Sam, he come stormin’ in the kitchen ’bout eight o’clock holding a plate that got a porterhouse steak with jes a bite out of it. ‘“Where the fuckin’ meat cook?” he shout so ever-body can hear him. Ever-thing in the kitchen stop, silence ever-where. Me, I, the head chef, I sees it porterhouse he holding, so I know it’s barbecue. So I says, “That Hector, Mr Sam, he the barbecue chef.”

  ‘“Meat chef, my fuckin’ ass! Get him!” he yell. He gone red in the face and he plenty mad.

  ‘Hector cain’t stop. He got steak on the grill. I call for somebody take over then he come over to us.

  ‘“What you call this, nigger?” Mr Sam, he ask him.

  ‘“That porterhouse, Mr Sam,” Hector, he says, pointin’ at that plate.

  ‘“It’s fuckin’ raw!” Mr Sam yell out. He so mad he got white spit both corners of his mouth.

  ‘“That table nine, Mr Sam. Order slip, it say that diner want medium rare.” Hector point to the porterhouse. “That medium rare perfek, sir, Mr Sam.”