The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  Elvis entered through the same door. He ambled toward the Negro, slid an acoustic guitar around his neck, and began to sing along in bluesy harmony. One by one, Scotty, D.J., Bill, and a couple other musicians picked up their instruments and joined in. Theirs was a special kind of camaraderie, in the groove, making music, doing what they liked doing best.

  A middle-aged man dressed in suit and white shirt but no tie sidled up to us. “You like?” Bald and graying at the temples, he didn’t fit in with the place, the purpose, or the atmosphere. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

  “Different,” I said.

  “Isn’t going to be Doris Day and Perry Como forever.” He offered a handshake. “Len Chess.”

  “Iris Grenadine.”

  His face lit up with recognition. “Reporter, right? Mentioned us in an article a couple months back.”

  “The word is you’re thinking of buying out Sun Records.”

  “Elvis is one of their artists. We wanted to take a closer look.” He shrugged as if he wasn’t terribly impressed, but his next comment gave him away. “The next Sinatra. With hips.” He wanted to sign him. He wanted to sign him so bad he was willing to invest in another record company to do it. “And you are ...?” he asked, turning to Starr.

  “With her.”

  Showing off and grinning like a jester, Elvis danced a squat-step across the floor. The others hooted and slapped their knees. Behind his shy smirks and sly glances lurked a man who aspired to be the center of attention. He had the makings of a star: hunger, drive, talent, and good looks. All he needed was someone to take him in hand, shine up his image, and buy him some swanky clothes.

  The colored singer said, “Do that again, man.” Elvis did, and the Negro copied his moves, goose-stepping and thrusting out the neck of his guitar like a phallic symbol. Everyone laughed.

  Emboldened, Elvis started warbling a song; fooling around and jiggling his legs; applying a sultry voice and a scorching delivery. Bill picked out notes on his bass fiddle, improvising and crooning in harmony. They played off each other until Scotty combined his guitar and voice with the others. The music took a stronger turn when D.J. joined on drums.

  Len flashed us a don’t-go-anywhere finger, went around to the control booth, and stuck his head into the studio. “What’re you fellas doing?”

  “Hell if I know,” Scotty said.

  “Whatever it is, do it again.” Len returned to the control booth.

  The musicians regrouped. Elvis addressed the microphone as if it were a pretty lady, his eyes unfocused and his expression dreamy. He strummed an A-major chord and hummed a few bars. Bill entered with his bass ... Scotty with his guitar ... D.J. on drums ... but they were just background noise. The lead singer was the main event, the crooner every girl from thirteen to thirty and beyond would drive anywhere and pay any price to see. Elvis thrust out his chin, rocked his hips, and let music pour from his soul. His lips snarled. His face sharpened. His throat warbled. At one moment, his eyes would shut out the world. In the next, they would open toward a distant horizon. The song became him, and he became the song.

  Len rejoined us and studied my reaction. Becoming self-conscious, I cleared my throat and tried to look unfazed in the presence of musical god who wasn’t half-bad to look at, either. Len grinned. Starr frowned. When the song ended, Len beckoned us to follow. “Something I want you to see.” In the studio, he showed us a sewer pipe with a microphone rigged at one end and a speaker wired at the other. “Our newest invention. You like?”

  Elvis strolled over and greeted me with a chaste kiss.

  “I like,” I said, drooling like a teenybopper.

  Len signaled the colored singer over and introduced us. “Chuck Berry, Iris Grenadine.”

  Up close and personal, Chuck seemed taller, skinnier, and almost beautiful in the sharp definition of his cheekbones, the highness of his forehead, and the cut of his jaw. His athletic build and appealing smile didn’t work against him. We shook hands. His fingers were long and calloused, and his hand was massive. He looked me over inch-by-inch, his brooding eyes hypnotic.

  “Treat this young lady with respect, my dear fellow,” Len said. “When she writes you up in her newspaper, you’ll want her to say something flattering.” Chess turned to me. “We just released Chuck’s first record. Maybe you heard it on the radio. Maybellene.”

  “I love that record,” I said, gushing.

  “I wrote it,” Chuck said.

  “It’s going to be a big hit,” I said. “It’s going to make you a star.”

  Chuck snapped his fingers. One of his gofers brought over a platter. “If what you say is right,” he said, “should be worth something someday.” He autographed the sleeve.

  Len finished setting up the amplifier. “If you wouldn’t mind, Chuck.” Chuck sang a few notes into the mike. A booming effect blasted out of the speaker.

  “Wow,” I said. “An echo chamber.”

  Starr scratched the back of his neck. “Still looks like a sewer pipe to me.”

  Berry cued up for his final take and began singing. I pantomimed to Elvis that we had to get going. He gestured a ‘hold on’, and after saying something to the boys, grabbed his guitar. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, I was wondering if I could hitch a ride. Left my bag at the hotel.”

  “When’s your flight?”

  “Later this morning.”

  “Starr won’t mind, will you, Starr?”

  When we stepped outside, I was slobbering all over Elvis. Hanging back, Starr mimicked his competition: swiveling his hips, playing an imaginary guitar, mouthing lyrics. I threw out a backhanded slap.

  Just as we reached the Buick, a ’53 Chrysler Imperial stretch limousine with blacked-out windows roared onto the scene. In a blitz of confusion and commotion, we were grabbed, jostled, manhandled, and catapulted into the back seat.

  Chapter 37

  THE IMPERIAL TOOK off with a squeal of tires. When the fog cleared, I found myself staring at the two wise guys. They were sitting in the rear-facing jump seats and leering at us with perverse glee. Mickey lovingly cradled a shotgun. The Sicilian nervously handled a Walther; our engagement must have been off. A third wise guy drove upfront. No one said a word.

  Mickey leaned forward, slapped Starr across the face, frisked him, and found what he was looking for. He examined the snub-nosed pistol and chuckled. Amusement turned into rage. With an explosive swoop of his arm, he whacked the barrel straight across Starr’s jaw. The impact resonated with a sickening whomp.

  At first, Starr didn’t know what hit him. The fedora vaulted off his head. His eyes slipped back into their sockets. He was still sitting upright, but after a delayed reaction, folded like a wet rag and rolled off the bench seat. He twitched. Moaned. Stilled.

  I kneeled. “Starr? Starr?!” His lower lip was already ballooning. Blood oozed from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. I used his pocket-handkerchief to wipe it away. A part of him was still aware. The rest was in la-la-land. He gurgled. Coughed. Heaved. Jerked. And passed out for good. I felt for a pulse. It was rapid but strong. I narrowed my eyes at the albino.

  He smiled. “Any more trouble, I’ll whack him again, only not so nice.”

  Starr whimpered. Even out cold, he was cognizant of what was going on around him. He was tough, tougher than I had him pegged for.

  Looking straight at the albino, I spoke in measured tones. “If we get out of this, I’m going to stalk you from one end of town to the other. I’m going to hang you with every crime in this city. I’m going to make your life a living hell. It may take a year. It may take ten years. But you’re gonna wish you’d never been born.”

  Mickey caressed the barrel of his shotgun and grinned. “Promises, promises.”

  The pain caught up with Starr. He howled, growled, keened, and swore up a storm, none of the words intelligible. He rolled back and forth, shaking away the agony, both hands encasing his face, his eyes blank and unseeing, his moans heartbreaking. Sharp physical pain se
ttled to a steady roar. Bit by bit, he came to. He moved his tongue around his teeth, making sure they were still intact. He swallowed blood and hacked. Mumbled incoherently. Lifted a hand. Wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. Winced. And tried to get up. It was a feeble attempt. He needed help. Elvis grabbed one arm, I grabbed the other, and together we hefted him back onto the seat.

  “Who are those guys?” Elvis murmured, his eyes shifting slyly. “What do they want?”

  I sent him a warning look. He understood.

  Starr leaned against me and tried to talk. No words came out, only misery. I ran fingers through his hair, comforting him. He moaned with extra misery, milking me for sympathy. He was more awake than he let on.

  “Only gonna ask once,” Mickey said, leaning forward, anxious to get this over with. “Do you have it?”

  “Have what?”

  Mickey looked back at Centanni, “Have what, she asks. Like we’re nincompoops or something.”

  “Not nincompoops,” I said. “Blockheads.”

  He readied a backhand, but Centanni poked the Walther square into the soft part of his partner’s neck. Mickey didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes slid sideways. “You know what we have to do if she holds out.”

  “Capisco,” Centanni said, lowering the gun. “But I can reason with her.”

  Starr was all over me, licking up my ministrations like a maltreated dog. His forehead was clammy. His skin was icy cold. But beneath his woeful vocalizations and incomprehensible utterances lay brilliance. His hand twitched in the direction of my purse. In all the commotion, it was still welded to my shoulder.

  “Me and her?” Centanni went on. “Like this.” He crossed his fingers. Our engagement was back on, but not for long.

  “Before she shoots your goddamn head off?” Mickey said, nudging his chin in the direction of my purse. “Or after?”

  Centanni bolted forward, clamped onto my wrist, and slowly extracted my hand from the purse. He peeled the derringer from my fingers. More amused than alarmed, he said, “Does it shoot?”

  “Is your head pointed?”

  Pumping a scolding finger back and forth, he went, “Tsk-tsk.” A bullet discharged. Everybody ducked. Mickey chuckled. The limo lurched. Stuffing drifted down from the roof liner.

  I went, “Tsk-tsk.”

  Centanni said to his partner, “What I tell you? Molto speciale, this woman.” Leaning forward, he used the derringer to gently expose rosy cleavage, an easy task considering my blouse was down to a single button. “Tristemente. Unless you give it up, we won’t be able to consummate our passion for each other.”

  I used a finger to push the barrel aside. “Tristemente, I don’t give a shit.”

  “What’s going on?” Elvis piped up. “Where are you taking us?”

  Centanni smiled at Elvis. “And you are ...?”

  Elvis held his guitar like a sexy lady, the body resting on his lap and the neck slung across his shoulder. He cleared his throat before saying, “Presley, sir. Elvis Presley.”

  “Do you write for the Daily Standard, too? Or are you a clown like this Bozo?”

  Starr moaned.

  “I’m a singer, sir.”

  “Opera? Pop? Jazz?”

  “Rockabilly.”

  “Never heard-a you.”

  “Ever hear That’s All Right, Mama or Baby Let’s Play House?”

  Centanni shook his head.

  “You will,” Elvis said.

  “Take it from me. You wanna stand out? You wanna be a star? Dye your hair black. Like me.” His eyes lowered to the guitar. “Sing for us.”

  “Here?” Elvis asked. “Now?”

  “Call it your swan song,” Mickey said, snickering.

  Elvis sat forward, slung the guitar across his lap, tightened the strings, and began to sing. The wise guys would be his toughest audience ever. With trigger fingers twitching dangerously against lethal weaponry, they nodded to the rhythm, followed every note, and swayed with the music.

  We left the city behind. The Imperial cruised down Route 41, headlights drilling a tunnel through miles of cornfields. The blackness of the night, the breeze billowing through rolled-down windows, and the rhythmic hum of roadside crickets became hypnotic. Elvis continued singing, running through a repertoire of new songs and old, classic songs and country, R&B and rockabilly, his voice masterful, his delivery hypnotic, his talent limitless. If my life ended here and now, I would’ve considered it complete. I was about to get my wish.

  Dawn broke. The driver pulled onto the shoulder. Elvis’s singing trailed off and eventually stopped mid-song. The final twang of the G-string heralded the end of the ride and the finale for all of us.

  Mickey hefted the shotgun. Centanni used the Walther to motion us out of the car.

  I exchanged frightened looks with Starr and Elvis. We were all angling for a way out of this mess, some way to overpower these jerks, a means to trick them or stall them or threaten them, or if all else failed, run like hell.

  Starr’s jaw had swollen to the size of a Bartlett pear. I grabbed onto his hands and levered him out of the limo. He was trying to say something intelligible in his head, but coherent words weren’t coming out of his mouth. I could see the pain wearing him down and pinching his face. His legs worked well enough, but his vertical frame was slightly lopsided. Between Elvis and me, we held him upright.

  The wise guys marched us between rows of cornstalks. The footing was uneven. Even though the morning was cool, at ground level, with the sun in our eyes, the heat was overbearing. The wise guys stopped and surrounded us, weapons drawn and eyes menacing. We had walked far enough into the cornfield to give them plenty of cover. If they left us out here, our bodies wouldn’t be discovered until next spring.

  Now that I could get a closer look at the driver, I took note of his bowler head and pickled face. He was older than the other two, and he wasn’t looking forward to the events to come. Neither was I.

  “One more time,” Centanni said. “I ask you nice. Where is it?”

  “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I said cheerily to the driver.

  “Scusi,” Centanni said, smacking the heel of his hand to his forehead. “My manners. Ratmeat Cominsky, Monica Seagraves, reporter for the Daily Standard.”

  I shook Ratmeat’s hand. “Correction,” I said. “Iris Grenadine, reporter for the Daily Standard.”

  Blood drained from Ratmeat’s face, turning him almost as chalky as Mickey. “Your last name again, Miss?”

  “Grenadine.”

  “Are you, perchance, related to Mr. John Grenadine?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Holy shit,” Mickey said.

  Ratmeat shifted accusing eyes toward Centanni. Centanni turned pea-green. “You’re not Monica Seagraves?”

  “And I don’t have Byrnes’s dossier, either.”

  “This is not good.”

  “I say we kill her and the other two, anyway,” Mickey said.

  “We can kill the other two,” Centanni said. “But if we kill her, her father will kill us.”

  “If we don’t kill her,” Mickey said, “she’ll rat on us.”

  “The choice is a difficult one,” Centanni said, pondering.

  “Any way you look at it, you’re history,” I said.

  “Maybe her father,” Centanni said hopefully, “he won’t find out.”

  “Arezzo will.”

  Wanting no part of the decision, Mickey and Ratmeat looked toward Centanni. After a brief consultation with a boardroom of one, Centanni said, “I give you one more chance.”

  I flipped out helpless hands.

  Centanni sighed. He signaled the go-ahead and stood back. Mickey pointed the shotgun at Starr. Instantly ambulatory, Starr made a run for it. The albino let off a shot, the blast deafening. Corncobs exploded to the right of Starr. Mickey let off another blast. Corncobs exploded to the left of Starr. Centanni joined the turkey shoot, emptying his revolver with glee. Starr toppled against th
e cornstalks, struggled to find his feet, failed, and crashed headlong into the ground. Crows took flight, squawking. Everyone stood still, afraid to breathe. Coming to with a jolt, Starr brushed away corn kernels and frantically searched for points of entry.

  “You’re not bleeding, Starr,” I said.

  “Good joke, eh?” Mickey said, reaching forward and levering Starr to unsteady feet.

  Starr pretended to laugh, no mean feat given his jaw. Mickey laughed along with a boisterous, “Ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho.” Centanni got into the act and good-naturedly slapped Starr across the shoulder. Starr walloped Mickey in the Adam’s apple. Elvis neutralized Centanni with two well-placed karate chops. Both wise guys went down for the count, groaning and writhing in the dirt.

  “Now who’s laughing,” Starr said, shaking Elvis’s hand.

  “Ladies and gents,” Ratmeat said, rubbing his hands together, “it’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”

  Chapter 38

  A HALF HOUR later, Ratmeat negotiated the Imperial into the circular driveway of an impressive white colonial. Starr was notably quiet. Elvis was strumming his guitar. I was refreshing my lipstick. Mickey was spitting blood into a handkerchief. Centanni was ogling my chest.

  Like all the Chicago bosses before him, Joseph ‘The Zipper’ Arezzo had a penchant for the good life. When his wealth, esteem, and political influence escalated, he purchased a lavish mansion in the suburbs for the grand sum of $150,000. He had ignored the advice and counsel of his lawyer, who told him not to move to the suburbs since the Feds would always know exactly where to find him. Arezzo was never a man to listen to advice, even when it came straight from the mouth of John Grenadine.

  We waited in the foyer, a rotunda notable for its domed ceiling, mosaic flooring, and larger-than-life marble statuary placed in evenly spaced niches around a center medallion inlaid with gold and lapis lazuli. Starr had sufficiently recovered from his ordeal to take in the gallery. He was still morbidly sullen and notably quiet. Every now and then, he would shake his head as if to clear the cobwebs. The lump on his jaw was taking on the characteristics of an eggplant.