Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  I’d been rehearsing my words all the way to the Firebird and, to my surprise, they came out perfectly. ‘My mind’s made up. I’ll just collect my music and be gone by tomorrow afternoon.’

  Bridgett was too smart to tackle me head on. ‘Jack, Christmas is coming up in two weeks and, as you know, the GAWP Bar is booked out for the month leading up to the festivities, and beyond until New Year’s Day. You’re right about Sammy; we can’t stop him doing something stupid, no one can. To add to the danger, I believe he’s on Benzedrine tablets.’ She paused. ‘I have a hospital report. He can be no possible threat to anyone for a good while yet.’

  I shrugged. The temptation to give in to this beloved woman was almost too much for me; I had to stick to my decision to leave. ‘Bridgett, I’ve loved being here, but Lenny read me Johnny Diamond’s letter before he burned it and I agree with him. Sooner or later, Sammy’s going to go berserk and I’m the obvious choice of victim. As you’ve so often said, he’s Chicago’s man. That makes him more than just a man. Sammy’s on Bennies, and I know all about them and what they can do even to a normal man. I’d like to get a head start – to be long gone before Sammy comes out of hospital.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Jack, I understand. The man is mad, and belongs in an institution, locked away for life somewhere. Why the godfather wants this monster around is inconceivable. As a loan shark or debt collector, or whatever he is now, he’s even worse than he was. Rumour has it – and it’s via the coloured staff, so it probably has substance – if a client doesn’t pay up on time, they get taken to a basement Sammy has in a derelict house on the Westside and severely beaten. Lenny’s tried to warn Chicago but they’ve made it clear that the loan-shark business isn’t part of our operation. At least he’s not our debt collector.’

  ‘But Sammy hates the Westside. Calls it Nigger Town.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he goes there. No white faces and the police don’t care.’

  ‘Did Lenny check out this basement? I mean, it could be real evidence.’

  ‘I can’t say, probably not, but the busboy, the kid who you sent to fetch me when Hector was hurt, knows where it is. He lives in a tenement close by and has seen the Cadillac parked outside several times.’

  ‘That means they all know . . . the coloured staff, I mean. Bridgett, all this is doing is making me more determined. It’s no good, I’ve —’

  She raised a hand to stop me. ‘Please, Jack, just hear me out first. Whatever Sammy’s intentions, for the moment he’s harmless. You’ll be okay for at least six weeks. I’m told he will be wearing a cast on his ugly face for at least that long. He’s got a broken nose, a crushed cheekbone and a broken eye socket. His minder is in the room next to him, although, I’m told, he slips in and out of consciousness and speaks gibberish most of the time, then calls for his mama. That fractured skull means a protracted stay. Sammy’s second minder, it seems, has disappeared with the pink Cadillac. Pretty stupid – there can’t be that many pink Cadillac convertibles driving around Nevada.’

  ‘Have the police been alerted that it’s been stolen?’ I asked, alarmed, knowing one thing inevitably leads to another.

  ‘No, Jack, of course not. The Mafia do things their own way. But I have no doubt they’ll find him. The point is, Sammy is a coward without his two henchmen at his side. Even if he could – and he can’t for several weeks – he wouldn’t attempt to tackle you on his own.’

  ‘That’s great, Bridgett. So, that gives me six weeks to get as far from here and Chicago as possible.’

  Bridgett paused and seemed to be thinking. ‘Jack, you’ve had quarterly wage rises ever since we moved to the Firebird.’ She gave me one of her knockout smiles. ‘I daresay you’re the highest-paid piano player in any bar in America. No, don’t worry, you’ve earned each and every cent, and the exorbitant price of cocktails in the GAWP Bar more than covers your salary. Our bar takings are up a staggering four hundred per cent. That’s unheard of. We sell the most expensive drinks in America, while the opposition has to give them away to woo the high rollers. I know money isn’t everything to you – you’ve never once asked me for a tide-over loan, even when I knew you’d been cleaned out at poker – but we really can guarantee your safety for the next six weeks if you’ll agree to stay until New Year’s Day. That’s less than three weeks, then you’ve still got three weeks to find somewhere safe. A new life . . .’ she said – somewhat wistfully, I thought. Then, in a more businesslike tone, she continued, ‘You’d not only be doing me a great personal favour but we’ll give you three months’ salary as a Christmas bonus.’

  I threw up my hands. Did she think the only thing I cared about was money? It was hard enough telling her I was walking out of her life, without her insulting me as well. ‘Bridgett, you should know better than that,’ I said. ‘If you were Lenny, I’d tell you to stick your money where the sun don’t shine. And, by the way, part of why I’m out of here is that I’ve never told a single soul when I’ve been busted in a poker game, yet somehow you knew. Everyone knows everyone’s business in this place. It’s high time I regained a semblance of a private life.’ I tried for a lighter tone. ‘Jack Spayd, sometime jazz and not bad blues player, himself at last.’

  Bridgett smiled. ‘That’s why you’re the success you are, Jack. You’re always yourself.’

  I shook my head. ‘If only you knew.’ I’d be round that desk and gathering her in my arms in a second if I thought I stood a chance.

  ‘Jack, I apologise for trying to . . . well, to put it bluntly, bribe you. You were going to get a bonus anyway. You’re right, this place is incestuous. And it leaks like a sieve. So, before I say what I’m about to, I want you to know that if you leave tomorrow morning, you owe me nothing. I’ve loved working with you and I do understand why you’re leaving.’ She smiled again, although I didn’t think it was the happiest smile I’d ever seen light up her attractive face. ‘So, what I’m going to ask is purely selfish on my part and if you decide against it . . . well, that’s okay too. There will never be any hard feelings between us.’

  ‘Okay, go ahead, but, before you do, if it’s about staying, I really don’t like your chances, Bridgett.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve never told you, or anyone this, but there was a price to pay for my two points in the Firebird. I signed a contract with the godfather that I would guarantee we’d increase our takings by fifteen per cent each year for the first five years; that way, the Mob had nothing to lose.’

  ‘You mean the profits for your part – the high rollers and the GAWP Bar?’

  ‘No, I mean the regular casino as well, Lenny’s part, too. On paper it was a pretty stupid agreement, I admit. But for a girl from the Appalachians, whose parents believed stroking a snake could cure measles, it didn’t seem too farfetched. America was getting back on its feet after the war, and the numbers of very rich people were steadily increasing and would continue to grow. My hotel experience taught me that it’s not possible to overindulge the wealthy. A grand resort casino was the way of the future. Besides, this way, it wasn’t blackmail; I could always tell myself I’d earned every cent.’

  ‘But what about the skim?’

  ‘Well, I was growing up pretty fast. I could see myself being cheated, my profits being carried off in a black briefcase every month so that I couldn’t meet my fifteen per cent increase each year. I got the godfather to agree that my figures were above the line – before the skim. Then I demanded two per cent of the skim as well, so that I knew what they were taking out tax-free. They squirmed and threatened but they were forced to agree in the end. To be truthful, Chicago never dreamed the Firebird could show the kind of profit growth each year that it has up until now.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Bridgett, you’re amazing.’

  She smiled. ‘Jack, this is the fifth year and my contract ends on New Year’s Day and, well, with new casinos on The Strip, each year it’s been a little harder. This one,’ Bridgett shrugged, ‘we’re skating pretty close to the li
ne. I’m not saying we won’t make it, but I can’t take any chances. If I’m one dollar short, those bastards will make sure I don’t get my points.’

  I wasn’t used to hearing her swear. Clearly she was under pressure, but did she take me for a fool? ‘What are you saying, that my leaving three weeks early could affect your annual result?’ I looked at her. ‘Bridgett, that’s very hard to believe. The GAWP Bar is booked out.’

  It was as if she’d read my mind. ‘No, Jack, you’re not a fool, far from it, but you are a male.’

  ‘And that means the same thing, does it?’

  ‘No, not at all, just that you don’t always think like a woman.’

  ‘Well, thank god for that.’

  She looked directly at me. ‘Jack, perhaps you don’t realise, but you’re the main attraction.’

  I threw back my head and laughed. ‘Give me a break, Bridgett! With respect, any good pianist could fill my role. The wives and girlfriends come to gossip and to drink and to have a good time. I just provide the background music.’

  ‘You’re right, playing the piano is only incidental, but who plays it isn’t. Jack, it’s you! Anyone can start a GAWP Bar, it’s not rocket science. They come for the total mix and a big part of that is you, your personality, your looks, your easy manner, modesty, talent, charm . . .’ Her smile grew as she ticked these off on her fingers.

  ‘Thank you, Bridgett, but that’s very hard to believe.’

  She ignored me. ‘We’re booked out until the new year with America’s wealthiest gamblers and their wives. I had to turn down nearly fifty applications. Putting it bluntly, if you’re not playing in the GAWP Bar the girls will go elsewhere and take their husbands with them. They can gamble anywhere. The Desert Inn has their new ritzy curved swimming pool; Michael Solomon is doing wonders at the Flamingo – he’s got an entertainment list over the Christmas break that’s like a who’s who of American entertainers; most of the new casinos have suites bigger than ours and just as luxurious or even more so. The moment they get a whiff of this, they’ll do everything they can, legal or otherwise, to steal our business, make our high rollers an offer they can’t refuse.’ Bridgett paused. ‘It could be an absolute disaster for me. We lost a fair bit during the waitress strike, but that will be nothing compared to what could happen when people learn you’ve left town. I’d have to write and tell them – they’d never forgive me if they arrived and found you gone. The competition from the newer casinos has been fierce this year and there’s a chance I won’t make the percentage in my final year. As I said, one dollar short and the godfather will withhold my dividends and cancel my points in the Firebird. It could well be the happiest day of his life.’

  ‘Jesus!’ was all I could think to say. I’ll give Bridgett credit, she didn’t burst into tears the way women usually do when they desperately need something from a guy. She simply sat, looking down at her hands in her lap. Then she looked up and said, ‘Jack, if you decide to leave today I’ll understand. This is my problem, not yours, but I wanted you to have all the facts before you decided.’

  What could I do? I sighed, perhaps a little melodramatically, then tried to cover it with a grin. ‘Mrs Fuller, come January the 2nd I’m outa here. It gives me time to sell up and sort out my affairs. “Apartment for sale, brand new Yale lock fitted”,’ I quipped.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Jack. I told the man at the locksmith to send me the invoice.’

  I brushed this away. ‘I paid him. And I get the Christmas bonus, three months’ salary?’ I asked cheekily, to lighten the moment.

  Bridgett smiled. ‘I’ll personally see to it you get it the day after Christmas.’

  I did a quick calculation – three months’ extra salary would give me a handsome sum. ‘I’m not short of money – been on a lucky streak, I guess – but I’ll give you the name and address of a friend of mine in Canada, Mac McClymont, who wants to start a small guitar factory in Toronto. Could you make the cheque out to him, please, Bridgett?’

  Bridgett rose from her chair and, for a fleeting moment, I thought she was going to kiss me, but she looked me straight in the eye and extended her hand. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I replied, a little embarrassed, but also pleased she hadn’t made a big deal of it. ‘Glad you’re going to get your points. I may need a loan some day.’

  ‘We’d have to discuss what I get in return, Jack,’ she laughed.

  Christ, this lady had a lot of class. Sometimes I wanted her so much it hurt, but once she had her points she would be so far outside my league she wouldn’t look sideways at me.

  I needed sleep, just a couple of hours, before I had to play, so I went straight to my dressing-room, set the alarm clock for 5.30 p.m. and passed out on the couch.

  Bridgett was right about the week leading up to Christmas – I was damn lucky if I got home before sunrise each morning. The rich had come to play – to gamble and gambol. I barely had time to think about selling my apartment and furniture. I thought about my departure in snippets, while shaving, or washing my hair under the shower, or just after my afternoon practice when I had ten minutes to relax before changing into my tux for the late afternoon session. I couldn’t see myself being content to settle down in Canada. I was pretty confident that, despite Sammy’s threat in the kitchen corridor, once I got out of Las Vegas that would be the end of the whole business. Surely even the paranoid Sammy Schischka would get on with his ugly life, and why should the Mafia worry about one lousy piano man? I couldn’t believe pursuing Johnny or me made any sense, even to a sick-head like him. After all, he would have achieved his purpose – we’d have both been sufficiently scared of him to get the hell out of town. Game over.

  The point preoccupying me was where on earth I would go. Certainly a long way from Chicago. Perhaps that’s why Johnny had chosen New York. It was an excellent choice if someone wanted to get lost. I’d never quite forgotten staying at the Waldorf with Miss Frostbite, visiting the World’s Fair and, best of all, meeting the great Art Tatum with Joe. Whatever else, the USA offered plenty of excitement – maybe even a bit too much at times. But New York, well, if you made it big as a jazz musician in New York . . . then I’d stop short and not allow my mind to go past this seemingly impossible aspiration.

  I longed to get back to fundamentals. New Orleans jazz, blues, the fundamentals on which all jazz is built. I was aware that even the jazz music I was playing in the GAWP Bar wasn’t what I called ‘Joe jazz’. I recall him saying once, when he heard me doing a little choppy phrasing, ‘Hey, Jazzboy, yo never gonna stop lovin’ yo mama, likewise yo never gonna start being a smart-ass wid jazz and da blues.’ There was another good reason to listen to Joe’s advice. Our black audience at the Sunday basketball stadium might dig cutting-edge modern jazz, but the GAWP patrons didn’t. The new jazz style referred to as bebop seemed to leave them cold, however much it excited the kids. The introduction of extended harmonies and highly syncopated rhythms simply didn’t seem to work for the rich folk, even though it had the coloured kids jumping. You could almost feel them starting to drift away. Besides, it wasn’t where I wanted to go. Jazz is endless innovation, but this wasn’t a direction I wanted to take. I tried to keep an open mind and I’d done a bit of bebop at The Phoenix; that is, until one afternoon one of the coloured cleaners summoned up the courage to interrupt me. ‘Mr Jack, we all done agreed that stuff you playing, it ain’t no good jazz. Nobody jumpin’ inside demself when you play dat thing. Lordy, lord, it jes don’t swing.’ I finally decided I was conning myself. ‘Esther, you’re right,’ I said, easing into a blues number I knew they especially liked. Perhaps it was a generational thing.

  I guess it was presumptuous of me to spurn bebop. I admired the virtuosity and dazzling inventiveness of Charlie Parker, clearly a genius, of Charles Mingus and Miles Davis, but I thought their music was too rarefied, too esoteric, too far removed from the original jazz roots and mainly appealing to a small, trendy audience. But
who was I, a piano player in a casino, to say they were wrong? Joe’s words came to me once more: ‘Jazzboy, we all got a right to do the music we love. But, likewise, iffen we gonna call ourself pro-fession-al, you gotta give the audience enough of the music dey want.’

  My biggest regret was that I was often too exhausted after a Saturday-night gig to attend the Sunday morning gospel services. How very different they were from Moose Jaw and Mrs Henderson’s Pentecostals with their ‘Praise the Lord, praise His precious name!’, its single piano and carefully syncopated hymn singing and hand clapping. Chef Napoleon Nelson had told me, ‘Jack, them Pentecostal cats, they really crazy, crazy, man. They kin really sing and holler. They go jumpin’ and praisin’ and cavortin’ for the Lord Jesus. I don’ hold wid everythin dey gone do, like speakin’ in tongues, some other things also, castin’ out the devil, evil spirits, but we da Southern Baptists, why we jes pussy-footin’ dat gospel music compare to dem lot.’

  ‘Don’t they worship snakes?’ I asked, perhaps stupidly.

  ‘Hell, no. That white hillbilly nonsense. Some, not all, done do dat. Coloured folk know better than doin’ somethin’ blas-phee-mous like bringin’ a snake into church. Everbody know da serpent, he come to Eve wid a nice big, shiny red apple. He da devil’s chile turn serpent hissin’ in her ear, makin’ promises and causin’ mischeef.’ He threw back his head and laughed a big, hearty Chef Napoleon Nelson laugh. ‘All the problem men dey have wid women, for sure dat serpent in dat Garden of Eden, he gotta be the one we done have to blame. Why, before he come hissin’ with his fork tongue, women dey just a piece of Adam rib – dey know der place. Like good barbecue spare rib, dey gotta stay juicy an’ tender.’

  But somehow the visit to the Assembly of God prayer meeting never happened. What I learned about church music – Negro gospel music – from The Resurrection Brothers nevertheless gave me new ways of seeing into the heart of things. Jazz, gospel and blues can’t be separated if you are serious about playing American music. It was time to get back into something real, back to the fundamentals. The GAWP Bar had taken my eye off the ball, and I’d let poker interfere with my musical life. If it wasn’t for The Resurrection Brothers, I guess I’d have eventually ended up a casino entertainer with a cummerbund to flatten my gut, dyed hair and a capped-tooth smile.