The Violet Hour

by Richard Montanari

  Elegant Linda’s was an opium house that operated out of the basement of a warehouse on East Thirtieth Street, near Superior Avenue. After passing muster with a pair of gargantuan Anglo thugs at the unremarkable front door, and paying in advance, Nicky and Beverly descended a long narrow staircase, passed through two more doors, then entered a dimly lit womb of damp red carpeting – floor, walls, and ceiling. The lounge at the back of the room, where one could sip tea or cocktails while waiting, was a haphazard jumble of mismatched red vinyl furniture, maroon draperies, and filigreed gold fixtures.

  Two men sat at the back, one black, one white. They wore matching motorcycle jackets, mirrored sunglasses, leather chaps.

  In contrast, the two hostesses were garbed in virginal white cheongsams, slit provocatively up to the thigh. They were white, around twenty, and made up like extras in a David Lynch version of the Peking Opera – high black hair, pasty white faces, red bows. They seemed to be in constant motion, designating the opium girls to customers, dispatching the twosomes to their private rooms with even, quiet authority. Above them, from cheap speakers buried somewhere in the thickness of the carpeting, a pan flute played.

  Beverly talked to the prettier of the two hostesses, the one with a small butterfly tattoo by her right eye, and found out rather easily which den was occupied by Rat Boy. Nicky hoped there would not be any repercussions. Within moments, he and Beverly found themselves being led through the elaborate web of rooms, rooms closed off from the narrow paneled hallways by thick velvet drapes. The girl who led them was Chinese, about twelve years old, dressed in the traditional samfoo, the black pajamalike clothing of north China. She took them nearly a full city block into the basement, carrying with her a long bamboo pipe and a small leather pouch. Along the way, Nicky could hear the sounds of the trade, the wet and raspy coughing, the incoherent babbling, low and hypnotic.

  Despite a half dozen years in rock and roll, despite five years in college and an association with some of the more bohemian types in the city throughout his life, this was an extreme end of the drug lifestyle that Nicky knew absolutely nothing about. More than once he had to remind himself that he was in Cleveland, it was the middle of the week, and that it was still twenty minutes until the start of the Today show.

  When the girl got to Rat Boy’s cubicle she stopped and cast her eyes to the ground.

  Nicky peeked through the curtains and saw Choi, supine on a jute mat, his huge belly and wattled thighs mercifully covered by a white towel, a young girl refilling his pipe. Rat Boy’s pipe was a showpiece, very ornate, with an ivory mouthpiece and delicate carvings along the shaft. The deep metal bowl was etched with Chinese characters.

  Rat Boy’s eyes were closed, but in the candlelight Nicky could see that his face bore the vacuous half smile that came from years of indulging in the brown, sticky paste; the stone-set features of the opium habitué. Nicky relaxed a little, realizing Rat Boy’s reflexes were probably slowed to the point of rigor mortis.

  Beverly stepped inside and spoke softly to Rat Boy’s girl. The girl finally understood, reluctantly handed Beverly the pipe, and retreated to a corner of the small room, where she sat, cross-legged, on the floor, waiting for something to go wrong. Within moments, Choi slitted his eyes, sensing another presence in the room. He smiled when he saw Beverly standing over him, offering up a thick row of uneven yellow and silver teeth. Rat Boy pulled off his towel. He pointed to his lips, then gently tapped his shriveled penis.

  When Beverly straddled Rat Boy, placing the pipe once again to his mouth, touching a long wooden match to the candle’s flame, Nicky retreated to an empty room. His opium girl stood in the doorway, pipe in hand, a little nervous about not being able to fulfill her duty, a little confused as to what Nicky wanted her to do. He walked her inside and gestured for her to sit on the edge of the mat. He offered her a cigarette. She refused, blushed, looked at the floor.

  Nicky put his ear to the thin paneled wall.

  He smoked.

  And waited.

  Twenty minutes later, Beverly stuck her head into Nicky’s den and beckoned him with one long, enameled fingernail, the color of ripe strawberries. Within moments they made their way hurriedly through the narrow corridors, across the lounge, up the stairwell, and out onto East Thirtieth Street.

  After the dank claustrophobia of Elegant Linda’s den, Nicky welcomed the now-teeming workaday crowd, the diesel fumes, the noise.

  As they walked toward Euclid Avenue, Beverly told him the bad news. Ronnie Choi wasn’t dealing heroin that bore the marks of either a tiger or a monkey.

  The marks, he had told her, were Anglo marks.

  ‘When are you going to settle down, Beverly?’

  They were standing at the corner of East Twenty-fourth and Euclid Avenue.

  ‘When men like you stop looking at my legs, I guess. You know what I mean? Straight guys?’ She flipped her cigarette into the gutter, lifted her short skirt a little higher, drawing the attention of a pack of young schoolboys on a bus stopped at the light. ‘You look at my legs when you see me, don’t you?’

  Nicky found no reason to lie. ‘Sure I do, Beverly. You’ve got great legs.’

  She smiled wanly. ‘For a boy, you mean. Right?’

  ‘No,’ Nicky said. ‘I mean, for anybody. Honest to God.’ Nicky pointed at the boys on the bus. ‘They seem to think so.’

  Beverly glanced up and shook an accusatory, maternal finger at the boys, who immediately took a collective nosedive onto their respective seats in a flurry of long-sleeved white shirts and thin black neckties. She looked back at Nicky. ‘You’re a doll,’ she said, noticing a cab, raising her hand. ‘But I know you’re full of shit, too.’

  She stepped into the cab, shut the door, smiled again at Nicky. In the morning light Nicky observed that her makeup had begun to crack a little; the lines around her eyes and lips were a lot more visible than they were in the provocative illumination of Elegant Linda’s.

  But before he could discern any other of the new day’s realities, the cab jerked into the vortex of rush-hour traffic on Euclid Avenue, preserving, for the moment, the illusion that was Beverly Ahn, lead hostess at the Shangri La Club on West Twenty-fifth Street. Preserving, for the moment, her bella aura.

  18

  Taffy called at noon.

  HE DROPPED THE man at the door with his Taser unit, a brief blue and yellow shock to the side of the neck that sent an immediate message to the man’s extremities that services were no longer required. He heaped the bodyguard at the bottom of the stairs, away from the windows, relieving him of his firearm in the process.

  But, as soon as he started up the steps, the man stirred a little, his hand instinctively moving toward his now empty holster, as if to say . . . one more please, sir, I’m not quite out of the fight . . . you see, I haven’t taken quite enough pain for my employer . . . the guy who pays me just enough money to buy my suits at Sears and my whores on Carnegie . . . more, please, sir.

  Mac obliged him. He lifted his right foot parallel to the floor, about waist-high. He held on to the handrail for leverage and brought his boot down with a violent scissor kick, his heel catching the man on the right side of his jaw, splintering the man’s teeth onto the dusty hardwood floor in a spout of bone and soft red tissue. The man fell unconscious.

  Mac ascended the steps to Ronnie Choi’s apartment.

  Five minutes later he descended, stepped back into the alley. Ronnie Choi had been sleeping, defenseless until Mac entered the room. He begged for his life.

  Mac had said no.

  Mac looked both ways, lowered his sunglasses into place, and turned up the collar on his khaki jacket. Small. Very small. He walked toward Euclid Avenue, toward the lunchtime crowd.

  And disappeared.

  19

  MADDIE CLEARED HER throat, stepped to the edge of the stage for her audition, and launched into:

  ‘The sun’ll come up tomorrow . . .’

  Amelia had Maddie in the exact center of
the camcorder’s viewfinder, a little flourish of professional videography she had learned from Roger’s brother Neal, the family’s official historian and gadget high priest. The problem was that she didn’t have the greatest seat in the auditorium, and the sound quality would probably be a little bit lacking.

  On the other hand, she had the feeling that the only sound she was going to get was Paige’s sniffling. Paige loved kids, Paige wanted kids, Paige Turner had the loudest biological clock in Collier Falls. She looked over at Amelia, her bottom lip aquiver, as Maddie turned the corner on the first verse.

  ‘Tomorrow! Tomorrow!’

  By the time Maddie had finished the song – a rather atonal rendering, if one were to be even Christian about it – it became clear that she didn’t have a chance at playing the feisty, carrot-topped orphan when Collier Falls Community Theater mounted Annie for the third time in the past decade.

  Afterwards the three had lunch at the Applebee’s on Fordham Road, a repast during which Maddie made a project of rearranging peas, and little else.

  But by the afternoon Maddie had brightened a little and she and Amelia made an angel food cake with raspberry frosting.

  Amelia’s imagination needled her all afternoon. What was that very strange e-mail message about? she wondered. Was it a business letter for Roger? A personal letter for Roger? Was it a love letter from Shelley Roth?

  She tried calling the technical support lines at MicroCenter at Eastgate but found out that if you hadn’t bought your computer there, you weren’t going to get any specific information out of them. However, the pert young lady at Customer Service said that they have daily computer courses and even a 900 number she could call for—

  And that’s when Amelia bailed.

  She dialed the second number on her list. It was the direct line to the audiovisual section of the main branch of the Cleveland Public library. The AV department handled the library’s considerable computer software collection.

  ‘Audiovisual, Rhonda speaking.’

  ‘Hi. I was wondering if you could help me with a little computer problem I’m having,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best,’ Rhonda replied.

  ‘I received some e-mail from someone, but I think it’s in some kind of code and I—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Rhonda said, interrupting. ‘I don’t mean to cut you off, but you’re kind of beyond me already.’

  ‘There’s no one down there who knows about this kind of thing?’

  ‘To be honest with you, we’ve only had one computer expert in this department over the last couple of years, and he’s no longer with us. We just sort of shuffle and file software, I’m afraid.’

  ‘He doesn’t work at the library anymore?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘I think he may be at another branch. Hang on a second.’

  The electronic hiss was soon replaced by Muzak as Amelia waited. It was a Neil Diamond medley. Finally, mercifully, Rhonda returned.

  ‘Yeah, he’s at our Walden branch if you want to call over there. Name’s Eddie Pankow. Real whiz kid when it comes to computers.’

  Amelia wrote ‘Walden’ and ‘Pankow’ on her notepad.

  He could see her on the phone, through the front window, but he couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She wasn’t using the cordless telephone this time. He wondered how much she knew. He wondered if the e-mail meant anything to her, although he doubted it. After all, she had not even finished junior college.

  Yet when they were intimate, he thought, when the electricity leapt between their skin and muscles and hair and bone, he wondered just how much of a challenge she was going to be. Quite formidable, he supposed. Maternal instincts and all.

  Yet for some strange reason, although he wasn’t quite sure why – nor would he be for a precious few more hours – he almost wanted her to fight.

  At four o’clock Maddie called from her friend Ellie Applebaum’s house. Ellie had invited Maddie for dinner, and after a short bit of whining, Maddie got her way. Amelia spoke to Ellie’s mother Dorothy, and was assured that Maddie would be home by around seven.

  At six o’clock Amelia sat at her computer, a Healthy Time microwave meal (Mandarin Chicken with Snow Pea Pods) in front of her, and decided she would call information in Walden, Ohio. She looked in the phone book, got the area code, and was just about to dial when the cordless phone rang in her hand. ‘Hello . . .’

  ‘Hey, wife,’ Roger said.

  ‘Hey . . .’

  ‘Miss you.’

  Amelia remained silent. Did she miss him? Yes. Would she let him know that? Not on your life. But she decided she was getting tired of the verbal sparring. She decided to be pleasant.

  ‘How’re my girls?’ Roger continued.

  ‘The big one’s tired,’ Amelia said. ‘The little one’s at a friend’s house. Where are you? You sound like you’re right around the corner.’

  ‘Just the wonders of modern science, I guess. I’m in Elkhart, Indiana.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. I’m at the Sheraton. Inside, they’re all the same,’ Roger said. ‘So catch me up. Seems like I’ve been gone a week.’

  Amelia related the salient details of the last few days in suburbia, including the grand opening of Paige Turner Books, as well as Maddie’s audition. For some reason, she left out the part about her and Paige nightclubbing. And the part about Dark Curls. They weren’t lies, really. Just minor, harmless omissions.

  Amelia looked less than longingly at her orange glazed chicken. It had already congealed into an amorphous peach-colored mound. Disposal fodder. She’d have a bowl of Trix.

  ‘Great,’ Roger said, a little too enthusiastically. ‘What else is going on?’

  Amelia told him about the cryptic e-mail message.

  ‘What do you think it is?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Some kind of coded e-mail, I guess,’ Amelia said. ‘Can’t read it. Looks very bizarre.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re supposed to be reading it?’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Roger said. ‘I’ll take a look at it when I get back.’

  ‘No . . . I’m serious, Roger. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothin. Ease up on the Midol there, babe.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me,’ Amelia replied, a little more harshly than she intended.

  Roger was quiet for a moment. ‘Look, all I meant was—’

  ‘Have you used my computer in the last few days?’

  ‘I think I used it once or twice last week when my laptop went into the shop. You weren’t home, so I just did a little online work,’ Roger replied. ‘But I assure you I didn’t send any e-mail to James Bond or anything.’ Roger laughed, but it was a humorless sound.

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe you should ask me first from now on,’ Amelia said, although she had no idea why. She hadn’t wanted to pick a fight, but the fight just seemed to happen.

  ‘Okay, boss,’ Roger said in his conciliatory manner that drove her further up the wall.

  Amelia growled in frustration and Roger took it as his cue. He said he’d call tomorrow, mumbled a desultory ‘love you,’ and hung up.

  Amelia listened to the silence of the house, now grown more still and empty since she’d gotten into a stupid argument with Roger. She considered calling him back to apologize, but she found that she really was a little pissed off. She wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it was because she really didn’t think Roger believed she could actually write a novel.

  Or maybe it was just the infuriating vision of Shelley Roth and Roger slapping thighs in a Budgetel off I-271.

  Sorry, babe.

  See you at the book signing.

  20

  WILLIAM THADDEUS COLLINS sat in a nondescript brown sedan, a double cheese Whopper in one hand, a Cleveland Chronicle in the other. He wore a department-issue dark blue watch cap and his customary wraparound shades, but he was clean-shaven and looked to have bulked up to a ridiculous proportion
since Nicky had last seen him. Willie T had to be in his late forties, but his body was that of a much younger man.

  It was late morning, so the post-breakfast, pre-lunchtime trade at the East Eighty-fifth Street Burger King was just a handful of cars. The parking lot was peppered with rusted Pontiacs and brand-new BMWs. Nicky backed into the space next to Willie T. Their driver windows were inches apart.

  ‘Hey, Mr T,’ Nicky said, cutting his engine.

  ‘What I tell you ’bout that Mr T shit?’ Willie said, with what Nicky hoped was good nature. There were times when Willie T looked meaner than the criminals. ‘And when are you gonna get a fuckin’ haircut?’

  ‘Said the man with no hair.’

  Luckily, Willie T laughed. ‘I got hair. I just choose not to wear it. Women love a bald black man.’ He took a bite of his burger, chewed it, swallowed, and asked. ‘So you struck out with the Rat Boy, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nicky said. ‘But how could this heroin not be Chinese? I mean, who else would put marks like that on the bags?’

  ‘The Crips, the mob, the Latinos . . .’ Willie T said. ‘The Chinese don’t have no patent on that shit.’

  ‘Any idea where I could look next?’

  ‘No,’ Willie T began, ‘but I do have some advice for you.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  Willie T looked up from his newspaper, undividing his attention. ‘My advice to you is to back off this thing.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I mean find another story, man.’

  It didn’t sound like an order or anything. It sounded like a suggestion. Nicky plowed ahead. ‘I got some time into this, you know. I did go down to that scuzzy fucking place at six o’clock in the morning, putting my life in danger.’

  ‘I’m telling you that you don’t know what this is about, man,’ Willie said. ‘You think this is about white-boy priests and heroin, but you don’t know shit. This ain’t about that.’

  ‘Willie, wherever this leads, I’m going with it. You know what I’m saying? This is my ticket out, man. If the shit gets deeper, I’ll wear bigger boots. C’mon. He was my cousin.’