Oh, God.
Unholy wrath boiled up in him. He drew his fist back and put the man blocking the doorway out of his misery with one vicious blow. Thud.
Zach exhaled, bringing himself back to neutral, regulating his breathing. Taking out his cell, he placed a call. Chaos serenaded the background as he gave the operator his creds, a brief account of what happened, and what he needed. Then, he hung up and knelt to cuff the motionless killer.
He glanced at the girl. She was silent now, eyes wide in sheer terror; knuckles white as she gripped the sheets. She still leaked bright red blood, and it was soaking her and the bed.
His gut twisted. The sight was grotesque and yet it tugged at the small part of him that could still care. Spying a robe, he went and grabbed it, handing it to the strawberry blonde.
“Put this on. Paramedics will be in to check on you.” He gestured to her neck. “Don’t worry,” he made himself say, attempting to sound like the civil servant he was supposed to be. “You’ll be fine. Sit up and apply pressure if you can.”
She took the robe, tears now streaming down her face along with black ribbons of mascara.
Zach turned away while she donned the scarlet covering. He heard her say ‘thank you’, though the words were choked, foreign sounding, and full of hoarse fear. He didn’t reply.
Sirens wailed, and he took his cue.
2
Shelley closed her eyes and waited for the kiss. And then…
Her cue.
She lifted her hands and settled them upon the cool ebony and ivory with the familiarity of an old lover. And as the wedding officiant announced Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so for the “first time ever” to the cathedral crowd of a thousand, she began the sorely repugnant triplet, march-like fanfare – repugnant to her at least.
The newly-weds glided down the red carpet runner, smiling, beaming like children hopped up on sugar, while she serenaded their promenade with half a heart, thinking over the dozen things she had to do this weekend. She didn’t bother reading the slightly-faded black dots on the eggshell white pages; it was only there just in case her cerebellum had another major insurgence and her hands suddenly forgot their choreographed dance.
Out of her periphery, she saw the moment the bridesmaids and groomsmen reached the end of the road, and wrapping up the last chorus of Wagner’s Wedding March, she brought the final measures to a retardando finish injecting synthetic vitality despite the taste of sawdust in her mouth.
And here came the father of the bridegroom now. Up the carpeted steps, towards her and the Baldwin grand. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Hand extended.
Rising gracefully, Shelley beamed as the man approached her – lanky, worn professional, slightly stooped from hours at a desk, but hey, he’s got kind eyes, and he’s a client of Daddy’s so be nice.
“Shelley, it was a pleasure having you play.” Firm grip. Pump, pump, pump.
“The pleasure was mine, sir,” she replied with forcibly dilated eyes. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”
The man grinned. “Yes. Especially since I didn’t have to pay for it.”
She gave a polite chuckle which had just the right amount of feigned genuineness as he finally gave her back her hand. Still mirthful, he reached for his wallet, and she looked away because mother had always said it’s rude to eye a man’s wallet and worse still to be given money straight from it like a cheap harlot. But that was mother, not her. And she had no problem taking money from men.
The wallet, however… She still couldn’t look at it.
“This is my” – he started pulling out bills in the fifties – “one job for today. My wife said if I failed, I would be in big trouble later.” He folded several greenbacks and then handed them to her with another 200-watt smile.
She returned her focus to him just in time to take the cash. Felt like a good hundred more than her standard fee. God, he must be really glad to be rid of his son. “Oh thank you so much.”
“No, no, thank you. I’m just wondering with you playing for all the top guns in Manhattan, who’s your dad gonna get when it’s time for him to give you away?”
Her face paled. Joke, Shelley. Joke. Say something! “I don’t know,” she blurted with a forced smile. “Maybe I just won’t have any music. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”
He chuckled, not detecting her subtle acerbity. “Yes, it would.”
She left the cathedral with its gothic spires and indomitable history and headed to her next gig, feeling no better than when she’d arrived an hour and a half ago. The evening sun made its presence known weakly, in a dusky blanket about her filled with smog and faceless buildings. She hardly took notice of the colorful, buoyant wedding crowd leaving the church at a leisurely pace, in no hurry to lose the magic of a well-sealed union. They paid her no mind either, making fawning comments about the bride and groom even though the skies portended rain or at least griped about the fat, scuddy clouds that wouldn’t shed their water weight and move on.
Personally, she gave the happy couple two years. And then somewhere down the road, she’d probably end up playing for one or both of their second marriages. Wouldn’t be the first time, and they’d pay her about thirty percent more too – inflation plus the high cost of embarrassment.
See? Not a bad deal. Except she’d already decided this was the last wedding she would do. Sure, she’d said that for the last six ceremonies, but she meant it this time.
Fully upset now, she picked up her speed, meandering through Lower Manhattan along a well-beaten path, wishing she could ditch her complacent shadow. She took a deep, hopeless breath filled with car exhaust and restaurant fumes until she felt the back of her neck pop.
Hearing the strains of a soul-tugging double bass, she followed the sounds of jazz until she came upon a musician she knew well from her days at Julliard. Bassist extraordinaire Jean Laurent. A man from Cameroon who always had a white grin sparkling against his coffee skin. He liked to sing while he played. And right now, he was crooning away in French to an Afro-beat version of “I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart”.
Sighting her, he soloed on bass for a chorus and greeted her with a smile borne of innate joy. “Salut, Shelley! Quoi de neuf?”
She stuck her hands in the pocket of her jacket, feeling the wad of cash, and replied with a shrug, “Rien de neuf. Juste du vieux.” Nothing new, just old. She smiled faintly. “How’s your little girl? She doing any better?”
Jean’s face dimmed a bit, but he still kept his unfailing groove. “Some days, oui. She’s a fighter. But she liked your soup.” He winked.
Shelley brightened. “I’m so glad. Have you found another gig yet?”
His fingers moved nimbly, digging into the thick strings. He half-laughed. “You keep asking, and I feel guilty for not answering yes,” he joked.
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head sadly. “I’ll keep my ear out. Désolée, Jean, je dois partir maintenant. See you around.”
He nodded cheerfully to her as he swayed with his upright bass and came right back in flawlessly at the chart’s head, singing in accented English this time.
“I let a song go out of my heart… It was the sweetest melody…”
She smiled at the sound of his voice and his grounded pulse. He had such easy grace. Like he knew how to exist with life, take it as it came, one gritty note at a time.
The huge case for his bass lay open on the sidewalk – how he received tips for the rent. Passing it, she discreetly dropped everything she’d earned from the wedding. He didn’t see, and she felt lighter for it. In some ways.
Jean’s worldly jive faded into the cacophony of the city as she approached the intersection of Church and Chambers. Head down, she noticed the same fissure in the cement just fourteen steps from the crosswalk. It had grown bigger over the last eighteen months. Changed. Unlike her.
Cars halted on opposite sides at the red light. A BMW lurched to a stop a foot from her, well past the white line. She glanced at the driver; he was on his phone, shades on, G
uess watch peeking from his cuff.
Pedestrians pushed around her to gush into the street. She nearly had to catch the hood of the sedan in order not to fall.
Walk.
She took a fortifying breath and moved on deadened feet before the cabbies jumped the green light and hit the gas. She had eleven seconds to get to the other side.
Ramone’s Steakhouse was just up ahead.
3
Zach usually never dined up here on the second floor by the wrought-iron guardrail. Usually, if the guys managed to wrangle him into coming, he’d settle downstairs by the neon Bud Lite sign and drink steadily – whiskey and/or beer, depending on how soft his day had been. Every so often, they’d nudge him in team spirit for his football expertise while the ESPN commentators gave theirs, which only hurt as much as a razor to a bullet wound.
During commercials, the guys discussed the unobtrusive pianist like she was a stripper. And then while Budweiser pushed its sweating bottles, one or more of his “friends” – notably his partner Rick – would get up to tip her a ten-spot just to earn a smile, a closer look, and a few phrases of trite flirtation. Zach wasn’t much of a piano-music kinda guy, but for one reason or another, her playing kept him sedated.
Distracted.
“Dammit, Zach,” David Ericson exploded urbanely. “I just admitted that I cheated on your mother even before your sister died. Doesn’t that earn me some credit?” He flicked his Wall Street fingers across the firm jawline he’d passed to his strapping son and glared across the linen-covered two-seater.
Burning inside with controlled flames, Zach picked up his wine glass and took a slug, grimacing as the pungent, aged grapes went straight to the back of his tongue. A $110 glass of shit.
“You’re not saying anything,” David prodded, slight annoyance hedging his words.
“The steak was overseasoned,” Zach replied evenly.
David looked at his son, noting the red welts on his knuckles, and chucked his cloth napkin, rattling nothing except the tenuous thread between them.
“Is that the only reason you wanted to see me? After all these years,” Zach said coldly. “To confess?”
David’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “What other reason is there?”
Zach thought he caught something underlying, something deceitful. And the tone… it was assumptive and lacked the humility necessary to make him believe. Deciding to pull the plug on this evening before he did something irrevocable, he took out his wallet.
“What are you doing? I told you I’d pay for dinner.”
Zach shook his head and counted out fifty, setting the bills carefully by the candle.
“Your insurance money isn’t going to last forever, son. You need to be more conservative. If you’d have let me invest it –”
“I don’t need your help.” Zach pushed his chair back and stood, revealing all six-foot-three of sculpted iceberg. His diamond-hard eyes caught the candlelight fire of the table next door and irradiated with an extra measure of fury. He shrugged on his well-seasoned leather jacket and flicked the collar, already taking a step forward.
“Now hold on.” David rose to his feet as well. Quietening further, he spoke in terse, measured tones. “I’m trying here, son.”
His father’s touch made him want to kill someone – preferably himself. “Didn’t wish me happy birthday. Dad.”
Guilt seeped into David’s blue-green irises. The man had forgotten. Of course. With one brief glance at the fifty, Zach went on his way, fully aware of how red his father’s face had turned.
Sidestepping a waiter with a tray held high over his head, Zach took the spiral staircase down, descending into the primary hub of Saturday night activity. His hand glided along the guardrail, gathering heat as it went.
The main floor had a moderately classy feel to it, particularly with the live ivory cascading over the atmosphere in a smooth, easy-to-digest layer. It was always cacophonous, however, with the clattering silverware, clinking glasses, and roar of a packed crowd all jabbering at once. But as Zach tramped through the fully-occupied tables, he didn’t even notice the people or the piano music, too riled, too heated in his blood. However, a particular false note punctured his quagmire bubble, and he stopped just before reaching the restaurant’s exit.
His ears pricked. Toneless caterwauling accompanied by square, pudgy chords. What the hell was that?
“Hey, sweetheart,” the drunken slab of blonde roast beef said. “Lemme teach you to play some rock.” And that’s how she’d ended up next to this vibratory Billy Joel, smooshed up against the maroon wall, trying not to be seen. His lightly-oiled hands greased up the keys as he plunked out a song she’d never cared to learn. He was a four-chords kind of guy who had no real performance cred – unless playing for his mother’s garden club counted. But the way his nearby corporate friends cheered him on told her he was definitely the office rockstar.
“Come on, piano girl, I know you’ve heard this song.” Wanna-be Billy changed keys clumsily and started in the middle of some Elton John song.
She shuddered though his body heat and the mist of red wine burned through the thin fabric of her clingy, strapless dress. This gig had gone from easy, low-stress money to a high-profile ordeal.
“Goodbye Norma Jean… Though I never knew you at all…”
People all over the main dining floor peeked around dividers, craned their necks like ostriches, and gawped openly like this was a burlesque. Several ‘check please’-ed their fingers in the air. She had no escape save to go under the Kawai grand but – who was she kidding? – nothing save a $10,000 diamond ring would make her drop her Park Avenue propriety and dive.
“They crawled out of the woodwork… And they whispered into your brain…”
Just as her embarrassment couldn’t have heightened further, a dangerous specimen in faded Lucky jeans and beaten leather happened by. She recognized him as a grudging regular who always sat at the bar, never spoke to his supposed buddies, and certainly never greeted her. But now, it seemed he was on approach.
“They set you on the treadmill… And they made you change your name…”
She soaked in the captivating indigo of his eyes, stubborn cleft of his chin, J. Ferrar outcropping of dark stubble and wanted to pass through the floor. She’d never seen him this close, and by all indications, he wasn’t happy.
“And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind…”
He bypassed the table of corporate cronies stuffing their faces and spewing encouragement and slowed to a stop at the edge of the piano. His masculine fingers casually feathered the instrument’s beveled edge. Nice hands, except for the ugliness of them. Cuts, bruises, welts. But his face? Unmarred.
Billy didn’t quit playing, but he did suspend his cat-killing pipes long enough to ask, “Gotta request?”
“Would you mind leaving the girl alone and taking your talents elsewhere?” The height-endowed man gestured towards the rest of the patrons. “Not everyone here appreciates them.”
Her heart melted. She felt his deep voice rumble the base of her stomach. But Sir Elton’s thin tenor quickly obliterated the pleasurable sensation.
“Whaddaya mean not appreciate?” He leaned back, hands still plunking out simple arpeggiated chords, and looked around the tall shadow at his buddies for corroboration. “You guys ‘preciating it?”
“Yeah!” they all garbled obnoxiously, raising their glasses.
“They’re not the only paying customers,” the stranger returned in that same black velvet tone.
Now, Piano Man’s smile erased, and the candle in the wind blew out. “Fine.” He stood up, gratified to find he nearly matched the darkly handsome intruder inch-for-inch. “Happy now, buddy?”
“Very.” There was a controlled demon in that disyllabic reply.
Shelley didn’t, couldn’t, take her eyes off the brooding hulk. Her heart picked up speed. She felt her sprites stirring as she watched him turn, fully-prepared to leave in peac
e.
Mr. Ebony-and-Ivory must’ve had the same case of heartburn. “Hey! No tip?” he ragged even though he was already sauntering back to his table, from where the good ol’ boys issued assuaging, ego-stroking remarks.
Having regained her bench and space, she scooted back to center and waited to see what would happen.
Her dark knight calmly took out his wallet – Shelley looked away – and walked back to the piano where a shapely decanter sat on the closed lid. He dropped a twenty into it and replaced his wallet to leave again.
But Rockstar took offense and went after the big-tipper, taking a commendable swing.
However, his drunken hook met with a deflecting iron palm, injuring his “piano-playing” hand. Before he knew it, has arm was pinned behind his back and he was restrained against the instrument. He let out a whimper, thoroughly indignant. He tried to break free.
“Just let it go, man,” one of his comrades advised quietly.
“No, it’s fine. Try again.” The dark-haired stranger reached into his well-worn coat and withdrew something. “Go for an even two counts of aggravated assault.” He flashed a badge for the men to see.
He’s a cop?! Shelley’s spirit filled with dismay. Sheltered in her corner by the heavy instrument, she watched the miscreants issue grudging apologies.
As the officer turned away, he glanced at her in passing only. But it was enough. She beheld his soul-damaged eyes; they gripped her powerfully. Her thighs squeezed together and her fists balled on her lap so tight her tawny skin was white at the knuckles. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but she did anyway.
He stalked off, exiting the glass doors, leaving her unbelievably bereft.
Shortly after, the corporate meat bags swaggered off, not tipping her, not in the least contrite. They stopped Ramone, the owner himself, as he maneuvered his sausage roll frame towards them. Shelley tried not to listen.
“Is this the way you treat all your customers?” piano man shouted in drunk agitation.
Crime & Counterpoint Page 2
