Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Then, at the very end, Chef Napoleon Nelson stood up and thanked them for their generosity. “The Lord is good,” he said, and made a little speech. You could have heard a pin drop as he told them how he’d first met you in a bar on the Westside when you’d come in and ordered sarsaparilla! This got a good laugh from the ladies, who were full of vintage Krug. He then went on to say how you’d jammed together, with you demanding he stay at the piano while you played the harmonica.’ Bridgett hesitated. ‘He had the room in tears with his story of how you played, and the people came and filled the café and the street outside. Then he said, “And now, we gonna play for Mr Jack Spayd the same number we played that first time. Ladies . . . ‘Saint James Infirmary Blues’.”’

  Bridgett began crying again, and I confess I was pretty choked up myself. ‘French champagne and “Saint James Infirmary” with me in hospital, that’s neat,’ I managed to say with a choked kind of laugh, trying to keep it light. ‘Well done, Bridgett. Is it any wonder the coloured folk love you?’

  ‘Jack, they feel the same about you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Bridgett, what now?’ I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable. ‘Are you going to be okay?’

  ‘Jack, if anything, I’ve got more paperwork. Yes, yes, I’ll be okay.’

  I lifted my bandaged hand. ‘Well, you’ll have to find a new piano man now. Your GAWP ladies will understand.’

  Bridgett burst into tears again. ‘Oh, Jack, what have I done! How can I ever —’

  ‘Shhh! That’s enough. These things happen. Just make sure you end up filthy rich out of all this!’

  The senior nurse came in and announced that they were about to change my dressings and that visiting hours were over. She stood by while Bridgett gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek and promised to be back the following day.

  I had to keep up some semblance of optimism, hope and good humour with the constant stream of visitors to my bedside. Chef Napoleon Nelson came every day and so did Lenny. He told me Sammy would probably need crutches, or at least a cane when he came out of hospital. Can’t say I was sorry. Lenny wanted me to delay my resignation, saying the Firebird would then be able to pay my hospital bills, but I’d had Bridgett update my original resignation to 2nd of January, then type it out so I could sign it. I wanted to be clear – not of Lenny, I explained, but of Chicago. I wanted no favours.

  I groaned inwardly every time I saw a figure at the door, with the exceptions of Bridgett, who came every day, Lenny and Chef Napoleon Nelson. All the members of the band came in one day, plus a heap more of the casino staff and the parents of Jim-Jay Bullnose. Even Booker T. visited when he was in town.

  The only good thing was that the constant throng during the day did stop me from dwelling on the condition of my left hand and what it might mean for my future. However, the nights – the endless nights after everyone had left, with only a dim half-light surrounding me – were like being in Hell’s waiting room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EVERY MORNING, DR LIGHT, the surgeon who first operated on my hand, would personally supervise the changing of my dressings, and every morning my wounded hand filled my heart with despair. It was a horrible purple colour, almost twice normal size and, covered in fresh scars and stitches, it only vaguely resembled a human hand. The very sight of it reduced me to tears. While he was careful to make no promises, Dr Light would inevitably conclude each examination with words such as, ‘Jack, you’re young and fit and the hand is mending well, but it’s much too early to tell what the outcome might be.’ It wasn’t exactly encouragement, but it gave me the tiniest sense of hope.

  As I’ve mentioned, I have big hands – Rachmaninov hands, as Miss Bates used to call them – good piano hands, anyhow. Now the left one looked as if Hector, the barbecue chef, had tenderised it with a meat mallet. Even after I got used to the way it looked, the sight of it still filled me with a sick terror.

  The piano was my life and, despite the tiny ray of hope Dr Light always left me with, it didn’t take much imagination to see that my career as a pianist could be over. Then, one afternoon, Dr Light entered wearing a broad smile, and accompanied by a tall man of slightly foreign appearance. He hung the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign on the door and closed it behind them. ‘Jack, may I introduce you to Dr Haghighi. You wouldn’t believe it, but as luck would have it, there is a medical convention at the Last Frontier casino. It occurred to me to check through the list of visiting surgeons and I discovered Dr Haghighi was giving a paper.’ He glanced up at the tall, smiling man. ‘Dr Koroush Haghighi is originally from Persia but is now considered one of America’s best hand surgeons. He is from back east and operates out of Albany General Hospital, New York State. He has generously agreed to examine your hand.’

  It says a lot for Dr Light that, as a surgeon himself, he was prepared to defer to a colleague with presumably near identical qualifications.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Spayd,’ the visiting surgeon greeted me.

  ‘Hi, Doctor; please, it’s Jack.’ I couldn’t be sure I’d pronounce either of his names correctly. I figured if he called me Jack, I could then simply refer to him as ‘Doctor’.

  ‘I’ve looked at your x-rays, Jack. I suspect there’s not much more that can be done here. Dr Light has done a remarkable job, considering the facilities available. But let me have a look for myself. X-rays don’t always show everything.’

  Dr Light proceeded to remove the dressings, a process that took a fair amount of time. It sometimes seemed I had more linen wrapped around me than an ancient Egyptian mummy. Meanwhile, Dr Haghighi went over to the porcelain basin in the corner of my room, removed his jacket, and proceeded to scrub his hands and arms up to the elbows with antiseptic lotion.

  ‘Jack, you may have noticed there are no nursing staff present. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention this visit by Dr Haghighi to anyone. He isn’t licensed to operate in Nevada and is doing me a great personal favour by looking at your hand. I must emphasise, please don’t mention it to any of the hospital staff – or anyone else, for that matter,’ he repeated.

  ‘Of course, I understand. Thank you both,’ I said, wincing despite the morphine as the last piece of dressing was removed, and the second surgeon, freshly scrubbed, appeared at my bedside.

  Dr Haghighi spent a good while looking at and probing various parts of what passed for a human hand, once in a while asking me to attempt to move a finger or turn my hand. Despite the painkiller, this often proved acutely uncomfortable. ‘Jack, you have lost some of your fine motor functions. There are also issues with the repair of the many fractures. I have the honour to head up a specialist hand injuries’ centre at the Albany General Hospital. It’s a very fine facility and I’m sure I can find you a bed if you’re willing to come east; though, I suggest, the sooner I operate, the better. The convention runs for a week, so it would be good if you could come to us as soon after that as Dr Light thinks it safe to move you.’

  ‘Can you fix it so I can play the piano again, Doctor?’

  He looked at Dr Light, who nodded. ‘Mr Spayd – ah, I beg your pardon, Jack – I can’t promise anything at this stage. This is an accident no surgeon can fully repair. The human hand is an extraordinarily complex physiological device, and it can often adapt remarkably to injuries but seldom to the sort of damage yours has received. I doubt we can fully restore it to its former capacity.’ He indicated my hand. ‘These are among the worst injuries I have personally witnessed. For a pianist, even a lesser injury would likely cause problems.’ He sighed. ‘I’m very sorry but it’s better to be truthful than to raise your hopes. However, I feel sure we can restore much of the use of your hand if you come to us.’ He shrugged. ‘But there is only so much we can do.’ He spoke English with only a trace of an accent and with perfect grammar.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, and suddenly saw that hammer swinging down again and the madness and delight in Sammy’s single exposed eye.

  ‘What do you mean by “much of the use”?’ It
was a desperate question.

  ‘Depends on what we find when we get inside for a second look. I think we can get you back to normal strength but the articulation of your fingers will not be the same as before. I’m not sure about the degree of feeling either. In your profession, I imagine, touch is essential. Also, I’m afraid arthritis later on is almost inevitable.’

  ‘So, no piano?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Well, Jack, it’s a question of how well you formerly played. If you give us the opportunity and you do the post-operative exercises, I’m sure we can effect a reasonable outcome, but I very much doubt you’ll be able to play at the level you once did.’

  ‘I think I’d like to be left alone for a bit now, thanks, Doctor.’ I could no longer contain my emotion and quickly turned away from them, gulping back my sobs while Dr Light replaced my dressings and bandages. The words Joe had once spoken to me floated back into my mind. I’d been suffering from a dose of flu and was unable to compete in a piano competition I was fairly confident I could win, and was whingeing about how unfair everything was. Joe said, ‘Jazzboy, life got a way of cheatin’ on everbody. Sometime we jes got to harden up some.’ I was still a long way from ‘hardening up some’ and continued to weep pathetically.

  ‘Get in touch with me if you decide to come east, Jack. To the Albany General Hospital,’ I heard the visiting surgeon say in a quietly sympathetic voice. With my face turned away, I was unable to respond or even to thank him, except to nod my head.

  Some days later, the police arrived. My heart sank when they introduced themselves – they were the same two detectives who had been at Hector’s bedside taking evidence. Or, to put it more accurately, taking a statement that allowed them to sign off on the case. Chef Napoleon Nelson had told me their names: Detective Myles Stone and Detective Hank Gillespie. How could you possibly forget a name like Myles Stone? Sometimes you have to wonder what the heck parents are thinking when they name their children.

  Messrs Stone and Gillespie got straight to business after a perfunctory introduction that included a display of their badges.

  ‘We have seen the hospital report, Mr Spayd. Your injury appears to be a result of an accident or assault in the early hours of December the 30th when you were on your way home. Do you recall what happened?’ Stone asked.

  I’d given a good deal of thought to what I was prepared to say and decided that there was no way I could tell the police what happened without implicating Lenny. From Chef Napoleon Nelson’s description, I knew enough about these two not to run off at the mouth. ‘What sort of protection would I get as a witness?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, are you telling us it wasn’t an accident, sir?’ Stone asked.

  ‘I’m not saying anything more until you answer my question, officer.’

  The second cop, Gillespie, then said, ‘Well, if the sheriff authorises it, we could provide police protection leading up to and during any subsequent trial, sir.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Ah . . . well, I guess that would be dependent on the circumstances, sir,’ Stone replied.

  I knew what that meant. I would be on my own if I gave evidence against Sammy. It would be a miracle if I lasted long enough to see any trial.

  Then Gillespie asked, ‘In your case, are there any other witnesses, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No witnesses at all?’ Gillespie repeated, his tone a clear warning.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you have any previous cause to suspect this person’s motives?’ Gillespie asked. They’d obviously done their homework and had quite clearly received a detailed briefing. I warned myself to be very careful with my reply.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you saying he had previously caused you trouble or harmed you personally?’ This time it was Stone. They were a well-trained duo.

  ‘No. He threatened, but never actually harmed, me.’

  They looked at each other. ‘And you didn’t actually see your attacker?’ Stone said with emphasis.

  ‘Better find yourself a very good lawyer and have a long talk with him before you start accusing anyone, sir,’ Gillespie warned.

  I sighed. ‘I think I’m getting the message.’ There was no point in telling them about Sammy’s pink Cadillac; it hadn’t been reported missing and with the night staff paid off, they could prove Sammy was in hospital at the time.

  Both tried to remain looking deadpan but I could see they were relieved. ‘Sir, we have the hospital report and we know you lost your wallet.’

  ‘And a gold Rolex watch,’ I added.

  Both wrote this down. Then Stone said, ‘It doesn’t explain your hand. The felon wouldn’t damage your hand to remove a watch. By the way, was there an inscription on the watch? If we apprehend someone in the future, it may prove useful,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes.’

  They waited, notepads poised. I realised I’d made a mistake mentioning the watch. Damn, damn, damn! Now I was going to have to involve Bridgett.

  ‘Yes, it simply said: Jack Spayd, the piano man. Thanks, Bridgett.’

  ‘Is that Mrs Bridgett Fuller from the Firebird?’ Gillespie asked.

  ‘She was my boss and she gave it to me as a thank-you for five years of playing piano in her casinos.’

  ‘Expensive gift, ain’t it?’ Stone remarked.

  ‘Well, perhaps. What are you trying to say, officer?’

  ‘You and Mrs Fuller, you weren’t . . . ?’

  The implication was obvious. ‘I take exception to that, officer,’ I said in a cool voice, so they couldn’t accuse me of being angry. ‘The inscription is semi-official; she refers to me by my full name Jack S-P-A-Y-D,’ I spelled it out, ‘then simply thanks me, as any professional manager might do. Anyhow, a gold watch is not an unusual retirement gift.’

  They duly wrote down the inscription and I felt I’d scored a rare point. ‘Will you read it back to me, please?’ I asked. They did so and it was correct. ‘Thank you,’ I said coolly.

  ‘Mr Spayd, please,’ Detective Stone said in what I think was intended as a conciliatory tone, ‘You must understand we’re trying to get to the bottom of what happened. Right now we can only surmise that you were attacked with a blunt instrument by a person or persons unknown, rendered unconscious and robbed. Your wallet and, we now know, your watch were taken. Maybe you were lying on the road and they drove over your left hand in their hurry to escape?’

  ‘And then I miraculously landed in the emergency department?’ I said, not without sarcasm.

  The two detectives may have seemed like routine hacks but I hadn’t the least doubt that, along with a whole heap of other Las Vegas cops, they were on the Mob’s payroll. They had not been chosen for their stupidity and were certainly not following the usual procedures.

  ‘Yeah, it doesn’t seem likely the perpetrators would do that,’ Gillespie admitted. ‘Perhaps the original perpetrators left you lying in the road in the dark, and a second motorist came along and didn’t see you until it was too late and drove over your hand. He is a good citizen, but doesn’t want to get involved.’ He paused. ‘If he called an ambulance he could get caught up in a possible future court case, always a long and thankless process.’ He paused again. ‘But, thankfully, he, or they – we expect it was more than one person, as you are a big man to lift – had a conscience and, instead of driving off and leaving you, dropped you off here, at emergency.’

  Stone then reminded me, ‘There are no witnesses, sir. The doctor who examined you in emergency says in his report . . .’ he flicked several pages of his notepad, ‘Yeah, here, “The damage to the patient’s hand is consistent with it having being run over by the wheel of a motor vehicle”.’

  I sighed, knowing it was pointless to carry on. There was nowhere to go, I was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I shrugged. ‘What can I say? I guess it was a car that ran over my hand, after all.’

  The two detectives remained poker-faced. ‘We will prepare your statemen
t, sir,’ Myles Stone said in an even voice.

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Gillespie added, turning to his partner with the merest hint of a smile. I was forced to silently congratulate Manny ‘Asshole’ de Costa on his choice of policemen to bribe – Sammy would never have had the sagacity to pick these two. ‘We will return in two or three days to have you read and sign your statement, Mr Spayd,’ Gillespie concluded.

  With a permanently damaged left hand, my musical career was effectively over and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that. Sammy had kept his promise to get even. I tried to tell myself I was a near-professional poker player and as long as I could hold a hand of cards, I’d have something going for me. But if poker was an addiction, then music was an overwhelming obsession; one could never replace the other. Perhaps a medical miracle at the hands of the Albany surgeon with the unpronounceable name? It was worth a try; that is, if I ever managed to get to Dr Haghighi at Albany General Hospital. With Sammy still alive, I convinced myself, Chicago would want to clean up the mess. It made perfect sense; this was no longer just about Sammy, there were too many loose ends, too much that could go wrong and too much at stake, and that would mean getting rid of the prime witness. I was the big red bullseye on the target.

  I thought constantly of Bridgett’s offer to resign and be with me, and about the irony of this. With an undamaged hand I’d have done anything to be with her, accepted any terms she cared to nominate, but now it was impossible. Mrs Bridgett Fuller was an exceptional example of the human race and if I – I mean, Sammy – hadn’t . . . I couldn’t take the thought any further. I asked myself who would want an ex-pianist for a husband, one who was addicted to poker playing and who lacked any other means of gainful employment. A great catch, I don’t think! Mrs Fuller, with her potential wealth from the two points in the Firebird, giving me my pocket money, my stake, to play cards with my pals. Pathetic thought. I could still go back home, and maybe reapply to take up my vet scholarship and eventually become a suburban doctor. I knew I’d have to give that some serious thought but, I must admit, it still didn’t appeal. Writing prescriptions for people with sniffles hardly compared with the life I’d been living . . .