The Immortal Game (August Riordan Series Book 1)

by Mark Coggins

  The space was long and narrow with the stage wedged in the back against a bare brick wall. Along the right was a chromium metal bar that looked like an examining table at the morgue. A set of bar stools with more duct tape than upholstery went with it, and a random collection of cocktail tables-some round, some square, some wood, some metal, all of them wobbly-was arranged in front of the stage.

  The crowd was just as eclectic. There were the cool “South of Market” types: the young women in black, synthetic clothing with clunky shoes and ridiculous purses like miniature backpacks and the guys in jeans with heavy leather boots, wide leather belts, and tight short-sleeve shirts. Hair dyed improbable shades of red, blonde, or purple was common among both sexes, as were tattoos and piercings of all kinds in every conceivable place. One woman seated at the bar had enough loops in her ear to hang a shower curtain.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder with these were the well-heeled yuppies who worked in the financial district downtown. Men dressed in Italian suits with the latest designer ties selected by their wives talked about IPOs, NASDAQ, venture capital, and the Internet-all while making double-arm gestures that could be used to wave in a jet. Leavening the crowd were a handful of inner-city blacks who showed up to support Cornelius Crawford, Distant Opposition’s outstanding alto sax player, a hometown hero who was on a trajectory for greater glory.

  There were even a few ordinary schmoes who came to get out of the house, have a drink, and hear some live jazz.

  Using my bass as shield, I waded through the crowd until I came abreast of the bar. Slim was standing behind it, straining a bright pink concoction from a shaker into a glass. He was wearing his usual white shirt and red bow tie. He was balding, bony, and had an Adam’s apple so prominent it waggled his tie when he swallowed. “Got your Pink Lady right here, August,” he boomed. “Straight up, just like you like it.”

  “Sorry, I only drink those when I play my concertina and yodel. I don’t think the guys would go for it tonight.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I hauled the bass the rest of the way up to the stage and set it down carefully on its side. The other musicians were already there getting set up. I shook hands all around and thanked Sol Hodges, the bandleader and drummer, for giving me the gig. I pulled out the square of carpet I carry to anchor the bass on slick surfaces and plopped it down in back, between the piano and the drum kit. Then I took the bass out of its zipper bag and wiped off the strings with a rag. As I began tuning up, I heard all the usual grousing that goes with musicians on club dates. Cornelius Crawford wasn’t happy with the reed on his mouthpiece. At first it was too dry, then too wet. Tristan Sinclair, the pianist, didn’t like the house piano for the same reason that all pianists hate house pianos: it was out of tune. Hodges was having trouble squeezing his ride cymbal in next to me, and the tendonitis in his elbow was acting up. Nick Dundee, the trumpeter, said the valve action on his horn wasn’t smooth enough and was busily dousing the valves with oil.

  Hodges passed around a rumpled cocktail napkin where he’d written the set list. I didn’t pay much attention to anything but the first tune because I knew he would call each one before we started and he never stuck to the list anyway. The first tune was a bouncy, up-tempo standard by Charlie Shavers called Undecided. When we were ready to roll, Hodges gave Slim the high sign, and Slim flicked on a mic he kept behind the bar.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to In the Key of G. Tonight we are featuring the best in classic jazz from a group of young lions who know how to shake it up and pour it. Please give a big round of applause to Sol Hodges’s quintet, Distant Opposition, featuring Cornelius Crawford on alto sax.”

  The applause started in the middle of Slim’s intro and crested when he got to Crawford’s name. A number of people in the audience shouted, “Crawdad, Crawdad.” The house lights went down and spots came on. Looking back into a smoky tunnel of light with my heart pounding and my fingers slick and slippery on the strings, I felt a rush of excitement like I was standing at the top of a high dive. Hodges counted off a tempo and cued Sinclair, who played an introduction on the piano. At the end of four bars the rest of us dove in. Crawford and Dundee led us through a chorus of the melody in unison-four sections of eight bars, the third being the bridge. Things were a little ragged at the start, and Dundee blew one outright clam. Crawford came in smoothly after the melody and played two choruses of jubilant solo. He got a big round of applause when he stepped back, and Sinclair followed him with two more choruses on the piano.

  Dundee came next and more than made up for the clam, straining his back like a limbo dancer, horn jabbing at the ceiling as he hit the high hard ones. He also earned a solid round of applause. The bass and the drum don’t always solo, but when I looked over to Hodges near the end of Dundee’s he yelled, “trade fours,” which meant that he and I were to alternate with four bars each. I kicked it off and resisted the temptation to play upstairs since I knew Hodges was a traditionalist and liked the bass to sound like one with deep, fundamental notes. When I passed to Hodges, he showed off some of the excellent brushwork he’d made his name with and then it was right back to me. We went back and forth like that until it was time to go back to the melody-or so I thought. I’d forgotten that Shavers’ arrangement had a shout chorus at the end. I fluffed several notes until I dropped the melody and picked up with the shout. Fortunately the horns were going great guns by then and the only one who noticed was Hodges, who gave me a dirty look. We closed with a rousing turnout and got a nice ovation from the crowd.

  More cries of “Crawdad” rose above the applause, but surprisingly, someone also called my name. I looked down into the audience and found Jodie sitting by herself at a table in the third row. She had traded her neoprene skirt for a simple black leotard and jeans, but she still had enough sex appeal to make a speech therapist talk in tongues. She waved enthusiastically when she caught my eye, and I waved back. Dundee saw the exchange and twisted round to give me a good look of him simulating fellatio with his trumpet.

  “That’s some nice skank there, Riordan,” he said, grinning like a baboon. “Why don’t you fix me up with that at the break.”

  “Sorry Dundee-she doesn’t like guys who blow their own horn.”

  “Ha!”

  “Can it,” Hodges said harshly, then called out: “Blue Monk.” Blue Monk was a twelve-bar blues number by Thelonious Monk. Hodges didn’t care for most of Monk’s composition because he regarded them as self-indulgent and too dissonant-sounding. In fact, he had once said that the sheet music for Monk’s tunes looked like flies had walked across the paper. Blue Monk was different, though. It was an approachable, straight-ahead blues number.

  Dundee scrambled to get the mute on his horn, and then Hodges called out the slower blues tempo. Piano, bass, and drums came in together and laid down the theme immediately. For me, the melody to Blue Monk had always evoked the image of a drunk stumbling home late at night. The front line joined us after the bridge, Dundee’s muted horn dominating and giving a real blue mood to the piece. At the end of the chorus, Hodges went into a soft drum press and yelled for me to “walk it.” I played a fluid, constant progression that provided a sort of rhythmic propulsion for the music. Dundee took the first solo and blew directly at Jodie. I had to admit that he sounded great and I didn’t get any argument from the audience. Dundee looked back at me when he was finished and stroked his goatee with a wise-ass expression as if to say: beat that.

  Crawford took the next chorus, and if anything, played better than Dundee. Sinclair followed with a credible solo on the piano, but probably could have used more left hand, which was a complaint I’d heard about him before. Hodges called for me next, and whether because I felt I was competing with Dundee for Jodie’s attention, or was inspired by the image of the drunk, I gave one of my better solos: a moody, resonant, shambling kind of thing. It provoked table pounding and shouts of “oh yeah” from the audience. Dundee looked back to stick his tongue out, and I responded
by moving the bass up a few inches.

  We stepped cleanly back into the head of the melody then, with all the players on board. Crawford came to the front and we followed his lead on an improvised ending that sounded rehearsed. It was nicely done.

  We played five more tunes in the set, closing with Sonny Stitt’s Loose Walk. The house lights went up, and after I wiped down the bass and laid it carefully on the stage, I went over to join Jodie. Dundee was already at the table leering over her, but I said, “Amscray chumperoo,” and elbowed him off to the side.

  “He’s cute,” said Jodie after I sat down. “What’s his name?”

  “Josef Mengele. We call him ‘the doc.’”

  “Nice try, August. I know about Auschwitz and it’s not something you should be joking about.”

  “I’m sorry-you’re right. His name is Nick Dundee, but pay him no mind because there’s a strong tradition in jazz that says the bass player gets all the women.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly what you call a traditional girl. What happened to your face?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I said and signaled the waitress for a round of drinks. “A couple of friends of yours entertained themselves today by taking swipes at it.” I told her about my encounter at The Power Station and the chase with the guy in the sweatshirt, without mentioning the photo in his wallet. “So what’s the story with this Chuck character?”

  Jodie sipped from her drink and then shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. He works in security, just as you were told. His last name is Hastrup and he played pro ball in Pittsburgh for several years. That’s all I know about him, except that he’s a real hard-ass. He’s not somebody you want to tangle with, August.”

  “I’ve already ascertained that through independent research. But what’s his connection to Terri McCulloch? Why did he stick his beak into it?”

  “I don’t know that he has any special connection to Terri-except that he works at The Power Station. Frankly, it doesn’t surprise me that he was alerted when you went there. From what you told me, it doesn’t sound like you came across as a very credible client. You would have done better to present the card I gave you and simply ask to talk with Terri.”

  “Yeah, maybe. What about this other joker, Nagel? What do you know about him?”

  “Nothing. Why would I?”

  “No particular reason,” I said. “Except maybe the picture he had of you sitting on the beach playing the ukulele in your birthday suit.”

  Jodie reddened slightly. “Oh, that one. That’s from a spread in Pussyfoot I did a couple of years ago. Anybody with $5.95 can get a copy.”

  “So you’re saying it’s just a coincidence that Nagel had one too?”

  “Yep, an embarrassing coincidence, but still a coincidence.”

  “Okay, one last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What’s it going to take to get you to come on stage and join us for a tune in the same getup?”

  Jodie reached across the table to tweak my nose. “A lot more than $5.95. A lot more.”

  “Well, thanks for coming. It’s great to have the support-and make Nick Dundee jealous as hell.”

  Jodie left before the second set. The band was smoother and looser, both because we were warmed up and because we’d all had a drink or two or three during the break. We did a half dozen more tunes, and closed with Perdido from the Ellington songbook. I hung around for a time to shoot the breeze, but got bored with it after Slim closed the bar and Sol Hodges started to tell the hoary old story about the time that Buddy Rich cursed out his band at the top of his lungs in the middle of a gig. I said my good-byes and carried my bass up the stairs to the street. Outside there was a dense fog, and the air felt cold and damp on my face after the close atmosphere of the club.

  EXIT WIFEY & HELLO MY FAIR LADY

  I WENT ALONG MINNA TO EIGHTH STREET. MY Galaxie was parked across the way, under a diffuse cone of orange light projecting from a sodium vapor lamp. No cars moved on the street, and as I looked north towards the intersection at Mission, I could see the traffic light flashing red through the fog like a distant ship signaling at sea. The only sign of life was a dark shape swathed in grimy blankets lying in a doorway.

  I went across the street to the Ford. I propped the bass against the rear bumper and bent down to open the door. As I straightened up, I looked over the roof and saw two men get out of a white van parked further up on Minna. Both were tall with heavy builds and both were dressed in white. One I recognized as the bouncer from The Power Station; the other was a black man with a shaved head that glistened eerily as he stepped into the light. I cursed under my breath. It seemed that there had been more than enough today without this. I said:

  “I didn’t think the diaper service ran this late.”

  Hastrup, the bouncer, walked around the front of the car, pulled a gun from the small of his back, pointed it at me.

  “Tell me you’re happy to see me,” he sneered.

  I turned to face him, noticing the square bandage taped to his forehead. “I’m happy to see you.”

  “The words are right, but the conviction is lacking. We’ll have to work on that. But first things first. Jimmy, here, is kinda curious about your big violin. How much do they go for?”

  “It’s called a string bass. They cost anywhere from four grand on up.”

  Hastrup nodded to the black man. “That’s quite an investment. I expect it’ll take a lot of keyhole peeping to replace it.” Jimmy went around to the back of the car and took hold of the bass by the neck. He levered it onto his back and swung it over his shoulders like a gigantic club. It hit the asphalt with a brittle, dry-sounding crunch. Jimmy let go of the neck and jumped in the air and came down on the bass with his big size twelves. There was more dry crunching, and Jimmy repeated the process until the zipper bag lost all definition and was nothing more than a sack full of kindling. That bass had been made in Italy by the famous craftsman, Alberto Begliomini, and was virtually irreplaceable.

  “You’re getting gladder to see me by the minute,” said Hastrup. “I can see it in your eyes.” He pushed the revolver forward until the cold, oily muzzle butted against my forehead. “How’s about I treat you to a headache like the one you gave me this afternoon, huh big boy?” He crowded in close, aching for me to react.

  “Let’s dispense with the tired theatrics,” I said in a tight voice. “It’s only a half hour show.”

  Hastrup snorted. “Okay, we’ll cut to the chase. Put your fucking arms behind you.” Then to the black man: “Come on, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy came up behind me and snapped a pair of handcuffs roughly around my wrists. He grabbed each of my arms above the elbow and bent me back like a trussed pheasant. “Try not to bleed too much,” he said, his hot breath tickling my ear. “It’s hell getting blood out of whites-white clothes that is.” He laughed sourly.

  Hastrup shoved the revolver back under his waistband. “I might have caused some confusion about the purpose of our visit this evening. This isn’t about you and me and our run-in at The Power Station. This is about Terri McCulloch. This is about Terri McCulloch and you staying the fuck away from her like you were told. Tonight we busted up the big viola and now we are gonna bust you up. But later, we’ll be watching. We know what your game is. If this warning doesn’t take, there won’t be another. You go anywhere near Terri again and the Coast Guard will be fishing you out of the water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Assisted suicide-that’s what it will be.”

  He stopped short and drew in his breath. He leaned forward, face glistening with sweat. “Now give us the witty comeback, Riordan. The bright repartee. We wouldn’t expect anything less of you.”

  I had barely formed a word in my mouth when Hastrup took a mincing step forward and landed a sharp jab to my cheek. My head snapped back and butted into Jimmy’s forehead. “Shit,” he yelped. “Watch it, Chuck.”

  Hastrup stepped in close and began to work over my mid-section. He knew what he was doing. I te
nsed my muscles to protect my gut, but Hastrup hit me square under the breastbone with a punishing shot and I lost all control. The blows came fast and hard then-relentlessly, inexorably. Soon I couldn’t distinguish between them and all I knew was a haze of pain and nausea and the feeling of not being able to breathe.

  Gradually I became aware that Hastrup had stopped, and I slumped against Jimmy’s arms, head lolling, mouth gaping for air. I heard Hastrup’s voice from far away, like I was at the end of a tunnel. “How much would you pay for a busted fiddle and a beat up private eye? Two cents? A nickel? But w-a-i-t: there’s more.” I sensed, rather than saw, a blur of motion and an explosion of pain radiated out from my groin. Jimmy released my arms and I poured onto the ground, too weak and battered even to curl up.

  “A busted fiddle, a beat up private eye, and a bruised pair of gonads,” said the far away voice. “But wait, there’s still more.” Something cold and hard hit me on the back of the head. I released my clutch on consciousness and went swirling down into the blackness.

  THE FIRST THING I SAW WAS a gold lamé pump. Then its mate. Then the shapely ankles that went with them, sheathed in fishnet stockings. I thought maybe I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Then I heard, “August, wake up!” in a distinctly male voice and I knew I’d gone to hell.

  As near as I could figure, I was lying on my side in a dank alley under a street lamp. My mouth tasted like a used dress shield, my head felt like it had been mined for rocks, and the way my groin felt, I was riding for a spot on the Vienna Boys Choir. I rolled over on my back and looked up at the owner of the pumps.

  She, or more accurately he, was a shapely blonde wearing a long-sleeve, gold lamé gown that was formfitting from the waist up, but puffed out in a fantastic, crinkly bell from the waist down. “August,” he said. “It’s me, Chris Duckworth. What are you doing here?”