Jack of Diamonds

by Bryce Courtenay

  Bridgett had her hand around the base of my erection, continuing to hold it as she raised her torso, and I heard the creak as her head brushed against the lid of the laundry basket. Then she moved forward and I felt her buttocks rise and her hand inserting me, then the slide into glorious smoothness as she engulfed me to the hilt. There wasn’t much I could do to help, as I was on my back. But that wonderful derriere I’d so often admired turned out to be not simply for show and I clung onto her wrist with my right hand for the ride as her breathing became more rapid until, finally, she was panting violently. Then, letting out a moan, she cried, ‘Oh, oh . . . I’m coming . . . I’m coming! Jack, oh, fuck me, Jack, darling . . . oooooh!’

  Her urgent thrusting made the laundry basket shake and creak as I lost it at the same moment. With a moan of my own I ejaculated deeply within her, my hips lifting and holding her torso in the air until I finally allowed it to sink back onto my thighs. ‘Thank you, thank you, darling,’ I said, at last.

  ‘Oh, Jack, I have waited so long for this,’ she whispered.

  Still panting, I hoped that the dull roar of the engine and the squeaky springs of the van had covered our mutual ecstasy. But suddenly Chef Napoleon Nelson called out, ‘You folk be okay? Westside road here got itself lotsa bumps, eh? We be there soon. Maybe five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, yes,’ I gasped, my breathlessness obvious.

  There was a moment’s silence, then Chef Napoleon Nelson said, ‘Maybe it take ten minutes before we gone arrive, Jack.’

  I have absolutely no idea how Bridgett managed to get my tracksuit pants back on, and do whatever else was necessary to restore some kind of normalcy for when the laundry basket was opened at our destination.

  ‘Okay, peoples, we be here,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson called loudly several minutes later. The van had slowed and turned, then come to a stop. ‘Just wait a minute and I get us everything organised.’ We heard the doors open and his footsteps moving away.

  The van settled on its springs as he jumped back in a minute or two later. ‘Okay, Jack, Miss Bridgett, all clear. We can go in the house from here and no one see. Nobody up this time anyhow.’

  Napoleon and the guys from the hospital helped us out of the basket. We were in a lane behind a row of identical single-storey houses. Chef Napoleon Nelson spoke briefly to Luke, the driver, and the laundry van moved off before I could offer my thanks; then he ushered us through a gate in the paling fence and across a small tidy backyard onto the back porch of the house.

  We were greeted by an old balding Negro in dark trousers and an open-neck white shirt, whom I recognised as Pastor Jake Moses of the Southern Baptist Church.

  ‘Mr Spayd, welcome to Westside,’ he said in a grave, courteous voice.

  ‘It’s Jack, please, Pastor Moses, and this is Mrs Fuller,’ I said, introducing Bridgett.

  ‘Please call me Bridgett, Pastor Moses.’

  ‘Miz Bridgett, I am dee-lighted!’ Pastor Moses chuckled. ‘On the Westside, there are folk who consider you a saint. I feel I’ve known you many, many years. Come, come,’ he urged us forward, leading us down a hallway into the parlour at the front of the house.

  ‘Sit down in here, please. My wife is in the kitchen, making Java. She be here soon.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you for helping me, Pastor, and I realise this could be dangerous for you and your friends,’ I said.

  He drew his head back and said, ‘For Chef Napoleon Nelson, there ain’t nothing we won’t do. But there be other, many other reason, Jack. Hector Brownwell, he be my cousin and but for your help with settlin’ him and his family in Canada, he be a dead man now. Maybe even beautiful Sue, also. Not just him but lots of the folk who work in the casino kitchens, they be helped by your advising of Miz Bridgett here when that prince o’ darkness, Mr Sammy, come to torment. To be a small help, be my pleasure. My wife Martha, her brother, be the local head of the union for the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters and already you know Booker T. Once we get you on the train, you be safe,’ he said. ‘Snug as a bug in a rug! Chef Napoleon Nelson, he gone organising a second transport for you right to the railway car in one o’ them Pullman Company linen baskets, jes like you been tonight. No white man gonna see you, not Mafia, not anyone. Same the other end.’ His rich voice with its rolling cadences, perhaps not as pronounced as those of Chef Napoleon Nelson, carried over as if from the pulpit and seemed to be the natural mode of expression of this kind elderly man.

  ‘I’m very grateful, Pastor.’

  ‘The boot on the other foot, Jack. Coloured folk paying back some. I heard you plenty of times playing wid The Resurrection Brothers. You a mighty fine piano player, sir; maybe someday you come back and play for folk in my church, eh?’

  I held up my bandaged hand. ‘I think those days are over for me, Pastor Moses.’

  ‘We gonna do a whole heap o’ prayin’, Jack. The Lord will look after you. Have faith, my brother, His healing power is beyond anything; the heavenly surgeon, he gonna take care of you, son.’

  At this point, his wife Martha appeared, carrying a tray. ‘Coffee ain’t right this time o’ night, so I made up some hot lemon tea.’ We introduced ourselves and she said, ‘Nice to meet you folk at last. I bin hearing good about you both a long, long time. It’s a pleasure, to be sure.’

  I sipped at the hot lemon drink and suddenly felt completely exhausted. Everything was catching up with me. ‘I think you should get some sleep now, Mr Jack,’ Martha said. ‘I’ve made up a bed for you across the corridor.’

  ‘When does Jack leave; I mean, what time?’ Bridgett asked.

  I was shocked by the question. ‘Bridgett, don’t you be anywhere near that railway station!’

  ‘No, Jack, of course not, I just want to be thinking of you,’ she said softly and gave me such a loving look I knew immediately I would carry it with me for the rest of my life. So near and yet so far, so little and yet so much; I knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever happened to me, I had, if only once, consummated the love of my life.

  Pastor Moses then said, ‘My brother-in-law sent a railway telegraph, sayin’ we gonna put Jack on the through train to Chicago, most probably on Thursday afternoon. Dat three days from now. Booker T., he rostered for that trip, and my brother-in-law, he says he’ll make sure some other people he can trust are on dat train as well.’

  ‘Jack, you be perfectly safe,’ Chef Napoleon Nelson added.

  The pastor spoke again. ‘You want him to get to Albany, New York State?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the Albany General Hospital.’

  ‘He’s to be under the care of a Dr Koroush Haghighi, the senior surgeon,’ Bridgett added. She’d heard the surgeon’s name only once but already she had it down pat.

  ‘Fine, Miz Bridgett. Better write that down, how you say it by way of pronouncing, because we’ll use the railway telegraph to set everything up.’

  ‘Is that safe?’ Bridgett asked.

  ‘What colour you think all the telegraph operators they are, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think it through,’ Bridgett said.

  ‘Ha! Ain’t nobody do, Miz Bridgett, that’s why it safe. We’ll get a most discreet message to Doctor Hag . . . whose name and pronouncement you gonna write down.’

  Martha appeared with a pencil and paper and then left the room as Bridgett wrote ‘Haghighi’ then, phonetically in capitals, HAG-HIG-HEE, and handed it to the pastor.

  Martha returned almost immediately. ‘Lizabeth come to take Miz Bridgett to the taxi,’ she announced.

  ‘Do you think we could have five minutes privately?’ I asked, suddenly stricken. The time had come and I began to fear that I might never see Bridgett again. ‘Some personal instructions,’ I said lamely.

  Martha showed us through to the bedroom I was to use and shut the door behind us. ‘Oh, Jack,’ Bridgett cried, ‘whatever shall I do? I can’t come to Albany in case I lead them to you!’

  I clasped my right arm around her and we kissed deeply, and
then I held her head against my chest while she sobbed. ‘Bridgett, we’ll find a way. I love you more than I can possibly say.’

  ‘Jack, I want you! I want to look after you,’ she cried, ‘I’ve loved you for so long.’

  ‘Bridgett, you must stay away from me. I’m bad news now.’

  ‘No, no, don’t say that, Jack!’

  ‘Let me get through Albany and then I’ll have to lie low for a bit. I’ll send Dr Light my mother’s address in Toronto.’

  Bridgett nodded her head against my chest, then stepped away from my grasp and knuckled the tears from her eyes. I could see her pulling herself together and, moments later, Mrs Fuller appeared. ‘Jack, I love you.’ She smiled. ‘How am I ever going to be able to tell anyone that I found the love of my life in the back of a van at the bottom of a hospital laundry basket?’

  I was choked up but managed to say, ‘Oh, Bridgett, darling, we’ll . . . we’ll find a way of getting together, somehow, somewhere, I promise.’

  Bridgett nodded. There wasn’t any more to say. She knew she had to stay away, have no contact with me in Albany in case she inadvertently led the Mob to me. ‘Write out a simple power of attorney and have the pastor witness it, that way I can sell your apartment and send your things on, clothes and anything else you want to keep, via Booker T. Will that be safe, do you think?’ I knew she meant my music but was being tactful. ‘Jack, we’ll use Pastor Moses as our post box. I’m sure he won’t mind.’

  ‘Better not go to my apartment yourself, Bridgett. They’re bound to be keeping watch. Don’t worry about my clothes and stuff, give them to Pastor Moses for the poor in his congregation; just fix the bank, my apartment and . . .’ I hesitated, ‘send my music.’

  Bridgett nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll send one of Chef Napoleon Nelson’s invisible kitchen clan. Being black in America does have some advantages, if only a very few. It had never occurred to me before that the perfect way to hide is by being entirely invisible.’ She came over and kissed me deeply. ‘Let me go first, Jack. Stay here for five minutes so I can leave with Lizabeth.’

  A single tear ran down her cheek, and I felt my own eyes prickling. She turned and opened the door. ‘Jack, oh, Jack,’ she whispered.

  ‘Bridgett!’ I cried. But she’d gone.

  I was forced to use three of the syrettes over the next three days while I waited to board the train. I could manage the pain during the day, but needed the morphine to sleep. On the morning of my departure on the afternoon train to Chicago, a letter arrived from Bridgett via Mr Joel, who informed me he was now referred to as Chef Samson Joel, having taken over from Chef Napoleon Nelson, who was now performing at the GAWP Bar.

  Darling Jack,

  As you will have guessed it is chaos here, with the place crawling with police and the FBI. Predictably, Manny ‘Asshole’ has taken over Lenny’s side of the casino and is demanding justice from the police and the FBI. (Oh, my, what a joke!) Somehow I’ve managed to keep the GAWP Bar going and Chef Napoleon Nelson is doing a splendid job, though your place is going to take a lot of filling. I don’t think it wise for him to see you on your departure and have told him so.

  As I’m sure you’ve been told, your abduction is also in the news. At this stage Lenny’s assassin is unknown, but the two men who visited you earlier are the prime suspects and the FBI has issued a nationwide description of them based on Sister Barry’s description. Please don’t worry about me. I am completely safe (paperwork) and my two points are intact even if Chicago lose their casino licence, which seems highly unlikely.

  Manny ‘Asshole’ is said to be spreading money around like confetti at a wedding! Darling, it is unsafe to go near your apartment (police watching) and I suggest after a month or so your mother sends me her bank details so I can transfer the money and your bank balance to Toronto. Tell Booker T. if this is okay. I have your power of attorney, thanks to our invisible friends.

  Please, darling, you have simply got to disappear. Chicago are most definitely after you! Also, it will be necessary to change your name. I have phoned your surgeon to admit you in the name of Jack McCrae and to note your hand injury as ‘auto accident’. Hope that’s okay. Dr You Know Who will destroy all paperwork here regarding your transfer.

  Jack, darling, I’ll try to find a way, but in the meantime I guess we shouldn’t make any contact under any circumstances, not even through the pastor. Know only that I love you with all my heart and always will.

  Bridgett ‘Love in a Laundry Basket’ Fuller X X X X

  P.S. Be sure to burn this letter.

  I borrowed a pair of scissors from Martha and carefully cut out the lines Know only that I love you with all my heart and always will. Bridgett ‘Love in a Laundry Basket’ Fuller X X X X. These I carefully folded into a compartment in my wallet before burning the remainder of her letter.

  That afternoon the laundry truck arrived with the blanket-lined linen basket. I said my thanks to Pastor Moses and Martha, adding, ‘I wish there was some way I could repay you, sir, ma’am.’

  ‘Jack, you already done that many, many times before. Black folk, dey love you.’ He gripped my hand and smiled into my eyes.

  Booker T. consulted his railway timekeeper, a large silver fob watch. ‘Better we be off now.’ He then handed me a small parcel. ‘Miss Bridgett says to give you this; she says you open it only when you on the train, Jack.’

  ‘Booker T., when you get back, please tell Miss Bridgett her plan about my apartment and bank deposit is fine.’

  ‘Jack, that already changed, only because maybe somebody get that letter by mistake. She gonna bide a while, then she gonna send that money through me and the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. That be by far the safest. Then it go hand to hand, nobody know nothing, jes delivery to Mr Jack McCrae.’

  As usual and despite the chaos at the Firebird, Bridgett had all the bases covered. The driver and Booker T. then helped me into the basket and lowered the lid. And that was how I left Las Vegas.

  The first thing I did was open the parcel from Bridgett. Inside was a small black leather case with the initials J. McC. in gold on the outside. Inside was a gold fob watch. I opened the lid and read the inscription in tiny letters covering the entire back of the watch:

  Love bears all things,

  believes all things,

  hopes all things,

  endures all things.

  Bridgett may have left her hillbilly past far behind, but when she needed to express her deepest feelings, she turned back to the Bible, the first poetry she would have heard as a small girl. I stared at the watch for a long time, then tucked it away in my breast pocket.

  We eventually reached Chicago, and I was wrapped in a railway man’s overcoat and transferred into a private compartment on the Commodore Vanderbilt’s premium service to New York via Albany. In that city I felt everyone was a potential assassin.

  I dozed when I could, but the pain kept me from becoming too comfortable. The service was splendid; nothing was a problem. I felt a bit like the legendary ‘man in the iron mask’, kept in total seclusion while I was being transported, so no one else knew I was there.

  It made me realise I was benefitting from a parallel black universe that I never knew existed. No doubt it had helped Hector and Sue escape safely, too. Miss Frostbite had previously written to say Chef Hector was an absolute blessing to the Jazz Warehouse kitchen and he’d been elevated to head chef on the retirement of Mr Charlie Blinker. Sue was also proving a great success as a waitress three nights a week and was being put through a modelling course as well as going to college. At the time, a black model in a white fashion magazine would have been unthinkable anywhere in North America and, I’m ashamed to say, possibly in Canada as well, but Sue’s blue eyes and fair skin disguised her Negro parentage.

  I arrived in Albany very early in the morning, the city I had mistaken for New York when I was still a boy. Wrapped up again in a long railway man’s overcoat, head covered by a warm scarf, I was hustled down
onto the tracks when the train stopped just before Albany station. I crossed two sets of tracks and was handed over to two young Negroes, who nodded silently and escorted me to a waiting car. ‘Hello, Jack. Welcome to Albany,’ Dr Koroush Haghighi called from the driver’s seat.

  I got into the passenger seat and turned to thank the two young guys who’d escorted me but they’d disappeared. We watched as the train drew away, then drove off.

  ‘Jack, I’ve booked you in under my care using your assumed name, as Mrs Fuller instructed. From now on you’ll be known in the hospital as Jack McCrae. You’ll be safe here for as long as we need.’

  ‘Thanks, Doctor. I’ve got enough money to pay you for all this,’ I hastened to say.

  ‘Good. I’ll do my part pro bono but if you can cover the hospital costs, it will mean there’s less paperwork and fewer questions asked.’

  I was to spend a little over three months in Albany and undergo several operations under Dr Haghighi’s care. I left the hospital after two weeks and stayed at a small boarding house close by. My hand was still painful but most of the time it was bearable. Gradually I began to get back limited movement in my fingers. For instance, I could grip things, such as a cup or a spoon, but I couldn’t imagine sitting down at the piano. I bought a kettledrum and used it to exercise my hand and wrist, slowly increasing the speed of my movements, but using my fingers separately was a major problem. I was still a musician only in my head.

  Fortunately, my thumb had been damaged less than my hand and fingers. The one-eyed Sammy Schischka was probably concentrating on the easy target of my palm.

  ‘The thing now, Jack, is to build up the strength in this hand. Work it until you want to cry from the pain and it will reward you. The more exercises you do, the better.’ Then Dr Haghighi would ask, ‘How is the feeling in your fingertips?’

  My reply was always the same. ‘What feeling?’ But gradually I started to get a little more sensation in my three middle fingers, although my little finger was still numb. For a piano player, that’s a bit like being a baritone without his lowest note.