I found a pay phone in the street. The air had a sharp edge of cold coming on, but the sun was strong and I didn't mind standing out there for a while. I ran through the loops, looking for the Prof. Came up empty. What the hell, I decided to roll down to Boot's, see if he had any new Judy Henske tapes.
"Boot" is short for bootlegger. That's what he does, mostly from live performances, but he also steals from archives, vacuums off the radio, whatever. I heard he found a way to slip a recorder into the Library of Congress—I don't know if that part's true.
He runs a shop in the basement of a narrow building in the West Village, a couple of blocks off Houston. Boot deals only in cassette tapes: no 45s, no CDs, no 8–tracks. Whatever you want, he'll find it and put it on tape, but that's the whole deal. You can order a mix from him too, but he won't label it or break it down. Only way to crack the code is bring it back to him and play it on one of his machines. Then he'll tell you whatever you want to know. That's how I found a sweet, controlled harp version of "Trouble in Mind" by Big Walter Horton. And a different, much rougher take on Paul Butterfield's trademark "Born in Chicago." Not a studio edition, you could tell Mike Bloomfield wasn't there that night. Boot doesn't do Top 40, and he thinks rap should be against the law. But he's got the biggest collection of blues and doo–wop on the planet, so he pulls a wide crowd—anytime you visit his joint, you can find Army Surplus side–by–side with Armani.
There's no headphones—everything sounds like it was coming out of a radio speaker in the fifties.
I hit the long shot. The Prof was there, standing on a milk crate, treating a half–dozen guys and one Swedish–looking girl in floor–to–ceiling black to one of his lectures, holding forth like he used to do on the prison yard. He acknowledged me with a quick, sharp movement of his head. I got the message—he was having fun, not working.
"Hey Boot!" he yelled. "Here's Schoolboy. You know what my man wants, right?"
"I got a new one," Boot said, looking out from under the green eyeshade he always wears. "Live. From Dupree's, in San Diego. Not even a month old."
"How many cuts?" I asked him.
"A full cylinder," he said. "Six beauties. Clear like you was right there too."
"Boot," the Prof put in, a teasing tone to his rich voice, "you get many calls for that Henske broad?"
"Yeah, we get lotsa calls," Boot said, jumping to my defense. "She got many fans, man, all over the world. They call her Magic Judy. That's why it's only a half for the tape."
"Half" was half a yard, fifty bucks. The usual tariff for one of Boot's tapes was a hundred—you got a discount if the artist was popular enough to justify him running off a decent number of copies. I handed over the money, declining the offer to listen to it first. I knew Boot's stuff was always perfect. Besides, I only listen to Judy when I'm alone—what we've got, it's just between me and her.
"Do you have a No Smoking section?" a guy in a denim shirt asked, frowning at the Prof lighting up.
"Yeah," Boot told him. "It's right out front. Under the lamppost."
I stayed there a couple of hours, just listening. To the music and to the Prof getting it on with anyone who wanted to try him. Nice to be in a place where you could play the dozens without it ending up in blood.
A young guy with a Jewish Afro and granny glasses got into it about who was the strongest bass in all doo–wop. "Herman?" the Prof mocked. "Man, Herman didn't have no bottom. Herman's bass was Mosley's falsetto, chump!"
The music took over. The Mystics blending on "You're Driving Me Crazy," Son Seals wailing his pain about the loss of his spot–labor job, the Coasters with Doc Pomus' immortal "Young Blood," a crew calling themselves the Magic Touch doing all a capella stuff from the fifties, a nice soft blend. Charley Musselwhite's "Early in the Morning," Ronnie Hawkins and the Nighthawks with "Mary Lou," Koko B. Taylor, Marcia Ball, Elmore James, Janis, Big Mama…
Boot didn't just hold yesterday's treasures, he carried tomorrow's crop too. A back–country hard–edged band with a lead singer who knew all about pain pounded over the speakers. "That's Paw," a busty young woman in a white T–shirt with "DON'T! BUY! THAI!" blazed across the front in red letters said to me. "Mark Hennessy's singing. Don't you think he's amazing? That's where I got this shirt—at one of his concerts."
I nodded my head in agreement with whatever the hell she was saying, watching her chest hyper–pneumatize the "DON'T! BUY! THAI!" message every time she took a breath. Somebody called her name and she turned in that direction. On the back of her T–shirt, in the same red letters, it said "ASK ME WHY!" I was planning to do just that when a ska–blues singer I didn't recognize came on, singing about someone named Ghost, a Badger Game man tracking a woman he called Shella. "Who's that?" I asked Boot.
"Kid named Bazza," Boot said. Works with a crew called the Portland Robins. "I pirated it off Miss Roberta's show in Seattle. Pretty fine, huh?"
"Sure is," I said, handing over some cash—the only way you vote in Boot's country.
"If he's any good, he'll be on the charts," a black guy in a khaki jumpsuit and a blue cut–down fez said. "Sooner or later, cream comes to the top."
The guy with the Jewish Afro lunged forward, but the Prof arm–barred him, saying, "Let me have this one, brother," like they'd both been challenged to a bar–fight. "Boot!" the little man commanded in a tone a maestro would use to his orchestra, "put on Number One."
Boot was too reverent to interrupt the Fascinators' version of "Chapel Bells." He waited until the last chord vibrated, then hit some switches and threw the place into silence. He rifled through his shelves, found the tape the Prof wanted, and slammed it into a slot.
"Give me some silence now, people," the Prof commanded.
A high–tension guitar opened it—just a few perfect, fluid notes. A soft, throbbing sax line came up underneath, a tenor with a baritone counterpoint. Then Little Richard walked on. But he wasn't playing this time—no shrieking and shouting: he stood on the Vegas–gospel borderland, a deep blues taproot anchoring him to the ground. Richard used the girl singers' background vocals like a trampoline, peacocking his way through his whole catalog: a pure–sweet lusty tenor, climbing the scale at will, comfortable inside himself only because he had no limits. The recipe was a rich gumbo: chain gang chants, church hallelujah, the gunfighter bars where nothing lasts long. He capped the upper–octave waves with his stylized hiccups, surrounding a talking centerpiece of blood poetry woven around sax riffs and that masterful muted guitar, driving off the black girls' storefront–choir voices, lifted by the organ. Sad enough to make you cry. Beautiful enough to do the same thing.
Ah, maybe the lunatic was right—maybe Elvis did steal it all from him.
The last sounds faded to the stone silence of abject worship. Nobody in that room had ever heard better.
"Now who was that, Solly?" the Prof asked the guy with the Jewish Afro, setting up his pitch.
"Little Richard," the guy answered, like he was in school. "I Don't Know What You Got."
"He was alive in Sixty–five, Lord!" the Prof intoned. "Open the door. Tell me more. Who's that on guitar."
"Jimi Hendrix," the young guy said. "Sixteen years old. Before he—"
"It was a big hit?" the Prof asked, setting up his speech.
"No, not really. Made the Top Twenty on the Rhythm and Blues chart, but…"
The Prof turned to his audience. "You all just heard it. The best song ever done. And never made it to Number One. Even if you escape with your life, the shark always leaves his mark. Case fucking closed."
We all bowed our heads, even the black guy in the fez.
"Where's Clarence?" I asked the Prof. We were standing on the curb outside of Boot's joint—the Prof high–fiving a goodbye to Solly, me waiting patiently so I could talk to him alone.
"He'll be along," the Prof said. "What's on your mind, 'home?"
"Weird stuff. A girl. Client, I was told. She made a pitch, but I don't—"
"Danger stranger?" the
Prof interrupted.
"That's just it," I said. "I don't know. And I don't know if it's worth a look to find out."
"Run it," the little man said, lighting a smoke.
The Prof listened close the way he always does. The way he taught me to. It only took a few minutes.
"Schoolboy, you know how some fighters, they just wave the right hand at you? Like they loading up, gonna drop the hammer? And all the time it's the left hook that's coming, okay?"
"Yeah."
"Some of them, the real good ones, it's the right hand that's coming. They one step ahead of where you think they gonna be, understand? Sugar Ray—I mean the real Sugar Ray now—he could do that, double–fake quicker'n a snake. Bite you twice as deep too."
"So you mean…"
"Yeah. Whoever's in it—and no way it's just the broad—they got to be smarter than they showing. They got to figure you gonna come looking for answers."
"Only place I can go is back to this Bondi girl."
"The ho' don't know, bro. And a trick can't play it slick."
"Then who?"
"This accountant, right? Michelle's pal?"
"He doesn't know anything about me, Prof."
"You believe that, you might just be as big a chump as that broad's playing you for. You scan the plan, you know he's the man. It don't play no other way."
Michelle was a vision as she walked purposefully past the stanchion with the tasteful lettering saying: ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED. The uniformed guy sitting behind a counter had been watching a propped–up little TV, but he snapped to attention when he heard the click of Michelle's spike heels across the black–and–white tiles. And one look at Michelle was all that he needed—he was skewered. Michelle doesn't do that swing–the–whole–thing, pelvis–out model's walk—she moves like the sorceress she is, with that muted tick–tock that tells you the motor's heavy on horsepower but not every key fits the ignition. I was a step behind, standing just to her right, but far as the uniformed guy was concerned, I wasn't in the lobby at all.
"Can I help you?" he asked her hopefully, his eyes wobbling between Michelle's perfect face and her slashed–silk pink blouse with its little white Peter Pan collar.
"I know you can, honey," she purred at him, red–lacquered talons splayed on the countertop, big azure eyes holding his. Just in case he decided to look anywhere else, she took a deep breath, let it out in a faint shudder.
"Uh…I mean, you wanna see somebody?"
"That's right, handsome. Can you just ring twenty–one G for me?"
"Sure! I mean, who should I say—?"
"My name's Michelle, baby. What's yours?"
"Manny."
"Manny? I know that's not it. That's a nickname, isn't it? What's your real name?"
"Emanuel. It's a family name, like. But I don't—"
"Oh you should," Michelle assured him. "It's a very strong name. Suits you much better than 'Manny,' don't you think?"
"Well…Yeah, I guess I do. But the tenants here, they like—"
"Emanuel is a man's name," Michelle cooed at him. "Maybe you should just save it for grown–ups."
"I…"
"Can you push that button for me, honey? Tell him I'm on my way up?"
"Sure!"
Michelle twirled slowly, then started for the elevator. Old Emanuel's jaw dropped—up to then, he thought he'd been staring at the best part.
We got on the elevator together. But if a cop came around later, Emanuel would swear that it was only Michelle. And he'd be telling the truth.
Michelle disdained the discrete little black button set into the door jamb of 21G, rapping lightly with her knuckles instead. The guy who opened the door was in his late forties, taller than me, with a pale, jowly face and a droopy mustache. His too–black hair was done up in an elaborate comb–over. His eyes had that intense look you see in guys who should be wearing glasses.
"Michelle! I wasn't—"
"Ah, Harry, it isn't like that," Michelle said softly. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"Yeah. I mean, sure. Why don't you…"
Michelle slipped past, gently bumping him with a rounded hip, moving him just enough for me to step in. He opened his mouth to say something. I showed him the pistol, asked, "You here by yourself, Harry?"
His face froze. Michelle closed the door behind her, twisting the dead bolt home with a harsh snap.
"What is this?" he asked, face going a shade paler.
"Why don't we all sit down?" I suggested, pointing the pistol at a white leather living room set: sofa, love seat, easy chair with ottoman.
Harry backed toward the easy chair, his eyes everyplace but the pistol. I nodded. He dropped into the chair. I took the love seat. Michelle perched on the arm of the sofa, crossing her spectacular legs. "You want a drink?" she asked Harry.
"Yeah. I'll—"
"Let me do it, honey" she interrupted, getting to her feet and moving off. I didn't watch her go. Neither did Harry.
She was back in a couple of minutes, carrying a little round tray. "Scotch rocks," she announced to Harry, bending forward like a stewardess. "Your usual, right?"
"Thanks," he mumbled, reaching to take the heavy tumbler.
"Vodka and tonic," Michelle said to me. I took the glass, tipped it to my lips. My kind of drink—vodka and tonic, hold the vodka.
Michelle had mixed herself a Green Hornet—gin and crème de menthe—in a highball glass. She held it in her hands, contented herself with licking the moisture off the outside of the rim. Harry watched, forgetting the pistol.
"How well do you know this Bondi girl?" I asked him, breaking the spell.
"I don't. I mean, I just met—"
"And she told you she had a problem? Needed somebody to do something for her?"
"Yeah."
"And you thought, maybe Michelle might know somebody who could get the job done…whatever it was, right?"
"Right."
I reached inside my jacket, took out a tube silencer, held the semi–auto in one hand while I screwed the silencer in with the other.
"Hey!" Harry yelped. "I didn't—"
"Yeah you did," I assured him. "You're lying. I'm not mad at you, Harry, but business is business. I got no time to shove bamboo slivers under your fingernails. No taste for it, either. Whoever's idea it was to come to Michelle, it wasn't yours. You can tell me, and it's over. You tell me and I'm out of here. You don't, this thing goes pop. And then I go and talk to the broad. Your choice."
"That's enough!" he said."
"Whatever you say."
"No! I don't mean it that way. I'm gonna tell you. He said I could tell you…just to see what you'd do first, that's all."
"And…?"
"And you fucking did it, okay? You don't need the piece." He took a deep hit from his Scotch rocks, leaned back. "I'm a gambler," he said. "You'd think I'd know better, what with what I do for a living and all, right? I mean, I know numbers. If there's one thing I know, it's numbers. But you keep feeding the kitty, she gets used to a steady diet. You stop feeding her, she growls—you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah. You're a hard–core gambler, and—"
"Hard–core? Man, I'm a degenerate gambler, a sucker's sucker. I win, I tell myself I'm playing with the track's money. You think I don't know that's bullshit? I mean, you win the money, it's your money. But it ain't your money unless you go home with it. And me, I never go home with it. I got in deep. And then I went deeper."
"Okay, what then? The sharks?"
"Of course the sharks?" he sneered. Not at me, at himself. "What else? And with the vig, I was getting buried alive. So I did some other stuff…helped a couple of clients work bust–out, ran a little laundry, did some structuring—you know what that is?"
"Yeah." Structuring: breaking big cash transactions into bite–size chunks of less than ten grand to slip past the IRS currency reporting laws. Michelle had him pegged—wannabes always love the language.
"I was chasing," Harr
y said. "You know what that means—no way I was gonna get out of it. I was going on the arm from one shy to pay another. Then I got this foolproof scheme," he laughed acidly. "A fucking horse, what else? An undefeated monster, going into the Meadowlands Pace. Million–dollar purse—no way anyone's gonna tank that one. So I decide, I'm gonna bridge–jump, all right? I empty the tax escrow account. All my clients' money on this horse. Not to win; to show. It'll pay two twenty minimum on a deuce, maybe even two forty, two fifty. Ten, twenty, even twenty–five percent return in less than two minutes—how could you beat that? I figure I'm golden."
He took another deep drink. "That's why they call it bridge–jumping, I guess. The fucking nag breaks stride. They pull him to the outside, get him under control. And then he flies, but he doesn't make it. Misses third by a goddamned neck. And then it's my neck. I'm done.
"I'm afraid to go out. Just sit here, waiting for them to come. But I get a phone call instead. From the guy who holds my markers. He tells me, maybe I can square it. I ask him, who does he want me to kill? He just tells me, just go to this place, see this guy. Me, I figure I'm dead anyway, so I go.
"And I meet this guy. He tells me, all I gotta do is call Michelle, tell her that there's a good score, give her this Bondi's number.
"'That's all?'" I ask him. He says, one more thing. A man's gonna come around, sooner or later. He's gonna ask some questions. I figure you're that guy. Anyway, he says, this guys comes around asking questions, you just give him this…"
He reached into his shirt pocket, came out with what looked like a business card. I walked over to him, still holding the pistol, took the card from his hand. It was slightly oversized, with deep–chiseled copperplate engraving on blue–gray vellum. Just the word
KITE
and a phone number. No area code.
"That's all I know," Harry said. "And it's the truth. Look, I just did what I had to do. You didn't get hurt, right? No hard feelings?"
I looked over at Michelle. She nodded agreement.
I sat there without moving until Harry's eyes finally came around to me. I pointed the pistol at the bridge of his nose. "You don't get a next time," I told him, holding the pose for a silent count of three before I slipped the pistol back into my jacket.
False Allegations b-9 Page 3
