Crime & Counterpoint
Page 1
This is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, locales, or incidents are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
CRIME AND COUNTERPOINT. Copyright © 2016 by M.S. Daniel.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. For information, please email geracibooks@gmail.com.
Published by Elusion Jazz Entertainment.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
To My Family
Table of Contents
Prelude
Part I Diminuendo in Blue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part II Crescendo in Blue
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Part III Poupée de Satin (Satin Doll)
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Part IV Money Jungle
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
Part V Take the “A” Train
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Part VI A Chromatic Love Affair
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
Part VII It Shouldn’t Happen to a Dream
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
Part VIII Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
Part IX Almost Like Being in Love
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
Fugue
Prelude
“Shelley!” Monsieur Jacquard shrilled.
Immediately, the exotic five-year-old bolted erect on the elevated piano bench, her young legs dangling unfettered. She peeked at her eminent instructor who looked back at her sternly.
“Mademoiselle, vous n’écoutez pas. You are NOT listening,” he said.
“Sorry, Monsieur Jacquard,” Shelley replied with penitent chocolate eyes, knowing if she gave any protest, her mother would have something desperately grating to say about it later.
Monsieur Jacquard pursed his thin lips. “Alright. Now from the top.” With his gnarled, age-spotted hand, he turned on the Quartz metronome on the grand piano and adjusted the dial.
Shelley’s heart ticked faster with the tempo. Nervously, she began again, her small but strong caramel hands suffering through the dreadful scale. Long, slightly-curled, mahogany locks secured by a ribbon jostled as she went from one end of the grand piano to the other. The yellow frilly dress which drowned her slim figure, however, remained stiff as whipped cream.
At the end of the exercise, she chanced a furtive glance out the windows in the back of the grand estate where James and Erik were happily playing soccer with daddy who was taking a rare day of reprieve to enjoy the perfect spring weather. In the background, somewhere upstairs, her mother’s impossibly agile execution of Caprice No. 4 in C minor sang from the violin room. But the rough and tumble squeals of twins, Clint and Ben, punctured the sonorous euphony. Shelley’s ears pricked and her shoulders hiked as they yelled and rammed one of their race cars into the furniture. It was like taking a hammer to a twelve-inch cymbal while Paginini played his rhapsody.
Oh, how she hated being the middle child – the middle child in a house full of boys. Boys! Boys! Boys!
“Alright,” her teacher sighed. “I can see that it is enough for today. But next week, I expect all the natural, harmonic, and melodic minor scales memorized in four octaves. Also, be sure to master the exercises we went over today in the Czerny. And remember, wrists!” He lifted his conservatory-trained hands and demonstrated the correct position. “Do not let your wrists sag simply because your enthusiasm is flagging. Vous comprenez ma chère?”
She nodded vigorously.
He gave a brusque nod, causing his magnum opus of curly grey hair to bounce. “If you work hard, you will be une très bonne petite pianist and make your father proud.” He rose with Beethoven eminence from the Louis XV-style chair and gathered his soft leather briefcase. “We will start on this Debussy piece at our next lesson.” He withdrew a book with an impressionist painting by Van Gogh on the cover and placed it on the piano stand.
The golden flecks in her eyes lit up at the sight of the new music.
“And perhaps if you are a very good girl, a little Gershwin, eh? That is the closest I will ever let you get to jazz.” He said it sternly but added a crinkled wink.
Shelley almost squealed but just barely managed to maintain her decorum. However, she couldn’t contain it altogether and gave the venerable teacher a spontaneous hug, his rough tweed jacket itching her face. He was shocked for a brief moment but then returned her embrace with a chuckle that softened his craggily features.
After Berlioz Jacquard bid his little student adieu, Shelley raced through the house to the back doors and burst through to where her father and older brothers enjoyed the early afternoon sun and sea breeze. Long Island was divinely warm this time of year. The dogwood trees rustled, dappling the grass with ever-moving shadows, a bed of fallen pink and white petals on the ground. Rose bushes of many colors were just now starting to bloom, but Shelley barely acknowledged their beauty and pure fragrance, setting her sights solely on her father.
Heedless of 9-year-old Erik’s loud protests, Shelley cut through the field as a breeze chased her on, causing the dogwood trees in her path to shower her in petals. James, the eldest at almost 11, was her champion and therefore allowed her intrusion into their game. His friends, including the neighbor boy, Jared Greene, and Jared’s rather quiet and sinewy, blue-eyed best friend were also in attendance, but their presence did not deter her in the least. She barely even looked their way.
Her father, Henri, sweaty, tanned, and dressed in Adidas, smiled broadly as she neared at top speed. Prepared, he bent and caught up his well-groomed, sweet-smelling daughter in his strong arms, swinging her around before collapsing with her onto the freshly-mowed grass.
“Were you a good girl for Monsieur Jacquard?” he questioned with a smile for his little princess.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I would have to practice harder if I wanted to make you
proud.”
His handsome smile broadened into a heartwarming grin. “But I’m already proud of you, darling.”
She didn’t smile back.
“What? You don’t believe me? You’re barely five! I don’t expect you to be a concert pianist by tomorrow.”
She dropped her gaze though her mouth curved upwards a little. He chucked her chin as the sun shone down upon them.
“Monsieur Jacquard just… knows that you have so much potential. It’s in your blood.” He beamed. “That’s why he pushes you. But I want you to enjoy it. And if ever you don’t, just tell me.”
She nodded and then remembered the new music. Her mood instantly brightened. “He finally gave me Debussy, Daddy!” she said, eyes shining.
“He did?” Henri exclaimed, trying to match her enthusiasm.
“Yes, and that’s not all. He also said if I’m very good I can play some Gershwin. Isn’t that great?”
“Wonderful, sweetheart.” He gave his daughter a hug. “I can’t wait to hear it. You know that Bach fellow’s a dreary one.”
She smiled in agreement. “Both of them.”
He grinned, and they laughed as if sharing an inside joke. Erik sauntered over to them, ball under one arm, sweat clumping up his tousled, dark brown hair, clearly irritated. “Can we get back to the game, Dad?”
“Just a minute.” He turned back to Shelley. “Do you want to play with us? You’ll have to change your dress or your mother will kill me.”
She giggled because it was true. “No, I think I’ll go practice.”
“That’s my girl.” He gave her a bear hug and planted a kiss on her cheek, heedless of the sweat he smeared on her. Then, he rose and pulled his daughter to her feet. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too, Daddy,” she replied and skipped back through the yard the way she came, the sun-dried blades of perennial rye crunching beneath her feet. The boys resumed playing the moment she cleared the field.
Stopping at the patio, she made sure to straighten her dress and smooth out her hair before reentering the house. Just in case. But no, she could hear mother’s fervent practice continue. Shelley sagged in relief, knowing she would not be detected regardless of what she did or where she went.
The odor of lemon furniture polish surrounded her once again as she sat back down at the shiny black Yamaha C5, which her father had bought expressly for her. On the wall, there were several large concert bills, framed in black, of her mother’s appearances during her world tours. London Symphony Orchestra, Vienna Philharmonic, Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, Berlin Philharmonic, Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and more. Shelley’s eyes rested on those lustrous posters wistfully, at her mother posed with her bow drawn across the strings of her prized Stradivarius. She wanted that life so bad she could hear the applause crackle through a darkened auditorium.
Resisting the urge to get started on the new music, she popped her knuckles, something Monsieur Jacquard expressly forbid, and began to rip across the ivory like a nimble spider. Up and down. Then back again, practicing her scales, fingers reflecting in the glossy black and white.
While arpeggiating the keys into submission, she dreamt of being a concert pianist, of playing in front of thousands of people, of becoming very famous. She especially dwelt on the glamor of being renowned. Because then, she could play whatever she wanted, do whatever she wanted, and some equally famous musician or conductor, who would of necessity also be extremely handsome, would fall in love with her and marry her. And she would live happily ever after with no brothers to boss her around.
Finally finished with her technique, which took over an hour, she eagerly jumped into the new book and began sight-reading. The lush harmonies and lightly syncopated rhythms were in perfect tune with her fantastical aspirations. All her dreams seemed to begin coming to life in the watercolor notes on the very first page.
Part I
Diminuendo in Blue
“There’s a way of playing safe, there’s a way of using tricks, and there’s the way I like to play, which is dangerously…”
– Dave Brubeck
1
He looked like hell had just spit him out. The demoralized leather jacket, the piercing, fractured blue eyes. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be anywhere but dead.
Then again, in a way, he already was. Dead.
From a vent of opaque steam, this same hulking bear emerged, stalking through the bowels of Chinatown. The pervasive display of colorful banners, bright store fronts, and blinding neons crawled under his skin, antagonizing his darker nature. Manhattan’s sunset hid behind dull buildings zig-zagged with fire escapes. Only a narrow strip of pinkish sky cloudy with suspicion hinted at the glory concealed.
A newly-arrived cold breeze grazed his dark, end-of-day stubble and slipped down the front of his black T-shirt. He tried to ignore the chilling change of seasons – actually, just the change; it caused an oblique ache inside his chest and reminded him of days best forgotten. But he couldn’t forget. Guilt had a way of etching itself into marrow such that no amount of forgiveness or time could ever resurface the matrix.
Sleep had become punishment. Dreams were his personal torture chamber. Distraction was his only God-given reprieve.
And today’s was a good one.
Turning left, Zach arrived at a stained, brick edifice which was definitely not up to code. But he stepped up to the grimy entrance anyway. Irritated, he ducked to avoid a low canopy with bold red hanzi and grabbed hold of the tarnished brass knob.
The hinges screamed like a banshee as the door opened and closed behind him. He’d seen his prey enter here just a minute ago – a sandy-haired frog whose wires had crossed two years ago, morphing him from normal husband, father, and French professor at Pace University to socially-functioning serial rapist and murderer. Ordinarily, Zach didn’t pursue these lone-wolf criminals, but there was a very good chance this one was affiliated with the Brother’s Circle. And as with everything, there had to be an end.
Inside, the décor was garish; the air too thick with the smoke of joss sticks to be exotic. He dominated the small, carpeted foyer with its cheap Asian artwork and brassy Buddhas seated behind the glass counter. Perched upon a stool, a woman who wasn’t of the Orient appraised him with a licentious smile. A scarlet kimono feathered most of her except for the good bit of leg she insisted on flaunting; chopsticks projected like twigs from her nest of hair.
She hopped off and came to greet Zach with curious appreciation in her green eyes. Her red lips parted to speak, but he beat her to it.
“The man who just came in,” he intoned in a brusque tenor. “Which room did you put him?”
“I’m sorry,” she cooed with a suppressed Slavic accent. “We don’t give out that kind of information.”
Displeased, Zach flashed the Glock 19 inside his jacket.
She drew back, smile fading like lights on a dimmer. The flirtatiousness evacuated her voice as she caved and pointed behind her. “He’s in room three.”
Wasting no more time, he stamped past the counter and down a short hall to the satin, gaudy-as-hell curtain at the end. Flinging it aside, he disappeared.
Without the mask of burning incense, the distinct reek of sweat, sex, and cigarette smoke saturated the open parlor. Globe lights leered hazily as if they’d been perverted beyond redemption, illuminating a faded Oriental rug caked with dirt and boot prints. Out of a patch in the stained satin wallpaper, a cluster of multi-colored cords dangled. But it was the mounted bass on the left side of the room which grabbed his attention. It gaped at the lewd artistry like a drugged fool. He tensed at the sight of the dead fish but continued into the adjoining, narrow hallway.
As he walked, muffled, lurid sounds penetrated the thin walls and doors.
He located the room with a stenciled imprint of a three on it. Just as he placed his hand on the tarnished doorknob, he heard a woman’s screams peel through the warped wood.
Quickly, he flung open the door and
took in the scene with a calculated sweep. A nude, underaged girl swathed with a shoddy white sheet. The Professor pressing a knife into her throat, still taking his pleasure. Blood squirting from an already-severed vein.
Zach recoiled. His ire rose to the surface.
The Professor’s head spun towards Zach. Bloodshot eyes plugged deep in fleshy sockets lit with fear. Just in time, he managed to scramble off the bed and out of reach. Sobering quickly, he gained his footing and brandished the glinting, dripping-red knife.
The woman screeched, blood spurting from her throat.
The Professor’s swagger vanished when some glimmer of recognition entered his feverish face.
Zach lunged forward. His left hand shot out and gripped the man’s knife arm, pushing it up high and back. The man let out a strangled cry of pain but didn’t let go of the knife. Operating on pure instinct, Zach gripped the man’s meaty wrist, cranked it downward, and twisted.
Crack!
He bellowed as the knife dropped.
Zach kneed the man’s beer-filled gut, and then for good measure, landed another blow to his fleshy face, catching his cheek bone and digging into his jowls.
The man dropped to the ground.
But then, from behind: “Hey, what the hell–?!”
Zach stooped and swiped up the knife just as –
BANG!
A shot sailed over his head and shattered the dirty window. The sound of the street blared as a zealous fall breeze swept in. Two more shots came in rapid succession, pelting into the drywall around the broken window and spurting bits of white dust and splintering wood.
Zach whipped around and threw the knife, feeling it slice through the bawdy atmosphere. It stuck hard in the man’s gun arm.
The man in the doorway dropped the gun, clutching his bleeding arm like a dying lover. His face contorted in pain and rage. Zach’s remained serene, cold, and calculating.
Another body streaked past the open door. Zach noticed but let him pass. He heard the runner calling out in a language he didn’t understand but recognized. Russian. Doors flung open along the narrow corridor. More commotion ensued. More people running. Ladies in red. Men with guilt burned onto their sweaty faces. Screaming, gasps, shouting.