by John Gardner
“I am not so tired tonight.”
“Then why couldn’t we work? You were tired. You wanted to listen to music instead of working like the trouper you’ve been.”
“You want to work now? I’m ready for more work.”
“No!” Herbie was tempted to say that the great Maestro really wanted to show off in front of the pretty lady, but that would not have been good psychology. Passau knew what he wanted. “Well, now it is I who am tired,” Herbie said sharply. “Tomorrow, bright and early, we work, okay?”
Passau shrugged. “Then I’ll have one little drink before bed. A Perrier. No, make that a Saratoga water. With a slice of lime.”
“Okay, Lou. One Saratoga, then you must rest. We also have to let this young lady rest. It has not been an easy day for her.”
“The soup’s absolutely smashing, Mr. Kruger. Golly, I needed it.”
“Please, I am Herbie, or Herb, to my friends.”
“What’s this absolutely smashing and golly? What kind of talk is that?” Passau was on the verge of becoming belligerent.
“This is how very nicely brought-up English girls talk, Lou. Stick around, you could learn to speak proper, okay?”
The Maestro swallowed the last of his Saratoga water and eased himself from the chair, very slowly, as though he found it exceptionally difficult.
“You all right?” Pucky put her tray down. “Here, let me help. …”
“He’s fine. Let him do it himself. He’s perfectly capable.”
“A fine way to treat an old man in need of TLC,” Passau grumbled as he made his way to the door.
“TLC?” Herbie grinned. “You want tomato, lettuce and cucumber, Lou?”
Passau grunted an obscenity.
“I come and tuck you up.”
“Send the well-brought-up young lady.”
“No way.”
“Is he really okay?” Pucky asked when Louis was out of earshot.
“Maestro Passau will outlive all of us. He’s fine.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “You come to give me the bullet?”
“Bullet?”
“Bullet; the sack, and a bag to put it in. You come to fire me, Pucky?”
“No, it’s not one of the options.”
“Near the top of the list?”
“No. The future depends …”
“On what?”
“Your side of the story. London is a little frantic, but they said I should base my decision on how things’re going. I either stay, or try to get us all out. London, it appears, wants the whole of Passau’s story.”
“Okay, I tell you the story so far.”
He did just that, asking constantly what else he could have done. “London wants the entire thing. I have a sincere conviction that, faced with a firing squad of ham-fisted interrogators, he would have clammed up. We got something going here, Pucky. He’s making me his confessor. I already got stuff that would make me thousands on the autobiography market.”
“We’re not talking autobiography, Herbie.”
“Oh, yes we are.” Herbie told her of Passau’s stipulation.
“All or nothing at all?” Pucky asked, tilting her head back.
“Good song title. Yes.” He went into the reasons. How Passau said everything had to be told, in order to make sense of what happened in the end.
“And he is going to tell you what happened?”
“Unless he dies on me, which is unlikely, yes. Yes, I believe we’ll get the full strength, as they say.”
“How long?”
Big Herbie shrugged. “Couple of weeks. Couple of months. Don’t know, Pucky. Impossible to tell. We get through a lot in a day, but he’s had a long and evil life, this one. Why not listen to the tapes. There’s a personal stereo around here, I’ve seen it. I can fix it so it runs at the speed I’m using.”
“I’ve got a Walkman. …”
“No, let me doctor the one here. Keep yours for listening to music. If I fix it, you can start straight away. Listen tonight and in the morning. Tomorrow night I give you tomorrow’s tape. Then you can decide.”
“London really needs to know what happened: the war, then the Cold War, then in Eastern Europe during that bloody tour.”
“Eastern Europe and Israel. I am desperate to know also, but a team of interrogators wouldn’t get it now. Listen to the tapes. If, by tomorrow night, you think it’s all wrong, that we have no chance, then get us out, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Don’t do anything in a hurry,” Art had said. “Herb’s first rate. Herb knows what he’s doing as a rule. Hear him out before you make any decisions.”
“Okay,” she said. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll listen to the tapes.”
“Hope you got a strong stomach. This old man is rich in sin.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Pucky smiled. She had heard so many stories about Kruger, and now, against all odds, she liked him.
“Herb?” she asked, as he started on the tape machine. “Herb, you know a lot of the answers. What’re they all playing at?”
“Who?”
“The Office. CIA. FBI. The changes in Russia are so heady, yet we’re playing old cold games. Why?”
“Search me. Obeying orders.”
“There’s something not quite right about it. Someone’s tried to kill the old man. …”
“Twice …”
“Twice. Yet we’re all skulking around. Art sounded as though this was a big deal. It’s really us against the rest of the world. We should be able to run to CIA and say, here he is. But it doesn’t look as if the Office is inclined to do that. What is it about Passau? Why now?”
“As I said, obeying orders. Ours not to reason why.”
“Well, something smells.”
“Always did, Pucky. Always smells in the field. You get used to it. Sometimes stinks to high hell, then, years later you find out why. Something nasty in the woodpile, yes?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes, Pucky. How long you been in the business?”
“Long enough.”
Kruger gave a laugh. One note, pitched high. “Let me tell you, is never long enough. Me? I was out. Retired, gone private as they say. There’s one thing I know, let me tell you, you nice Pucky person. In this business nothing is ever what it seems. Rule of life in this second oldest profession. If we ain’t got the commies to spy on, we’ll find someone else. Even spy on each other. Nothing is ever what it seems. You remember that when we get to the big finish, and I hope we’re both around for the applause. Okay?”
Pucky Curtiss did not have the first idea of what he meant. She shook her head, not looking at him; not knowing what was going on in that large pumpkin on Kruger’s shoulders.
Herbie worked for twenty minutes, using the small screwdrivers Naldo had brought from Radio Shack. He had done jobs like this many times in the past, and it was relatively easy to slow down the mechanism of the Panasonic personal stereo he had found on the owner’s bedside table. The tricky bit would be making it run normally again when they finally left.
Pucky listened partway through the night, was brought breakfast in bed by the doting Kruger, and carried on listening while he went downstairs to start another day with Passau.
“Okay, Maestro. You fit?”
“As a flea, Herb.”
“We left you playing at Mr. Torrio’s Barn. So what next, Lou?”
(18)
LOUIS “THE PIANIST” PACKER soon settled into a routine, playing at The Barn six nights out of seven, getting to know the regular customers and making himself useful. But, within a couple of months, either Torrio or Capone began to send messages to him, late at night. The messages were delivered by a battered-looking tough who usually had a car waiting outside. The car was there to drive Louis to play at another cathouse, or speakeasy: like the nearby Burnham Inn, The Speedway or The Coney Island Cafe.
Sometimes it was even further away—out to the Roamer Inn, or the Burr Inn at Blue Island—managed by one of Torrio’s henchmen, Mike
Heitler, known to most people as Mike de Pike. On one evening, Louis was taken over to Chicago Heights to play at the Moonlight Cafe; on another, to Stickney—an area crammed with his bosses’ cathouses—and to the Shadow Inn, where, on more than one occasion, he glimpsed two leading Chicago aldermen who wielded great political power on Johnny Torrio’s behalf. These two men were Michael Kenna and John Coughlin, known to the newspapers as “Hinky Dink” and “Bathhouse John.” The nicknames, Lou had already discovered, were shortened by Torrio-Capone initiates to the diminutive titles of the “Dink” and the “Bath.”
“Herbie, even if you’ve read all the books, you have no idea of the power of these people, or how popular Torrio and Capone were in those days. Sure, you’ve seen Rod Steiger play Capone in the movies, and that other actor, what’s his name? De Niro, in the movie they made, The Untouchables. But you’ve no idea how people really liked these guys. They were kings. They ruled Chicago, and the people loved them because they were doing a public service by breaking the law.”
“Weren’t people frightened of them?”
“Only if they had reason to be frightened. Torrio, Capone and all the other mobsters only went after their own kind, or people who crossed them. Chicago was a wild, wild city in those days. People led normal, everyday lives, but there was this stratum at the top, and people like Torrio and Capone were like pop stars are today.
“Sure, they were ruthless criminals and I’m not trying to defend them, or make heroes out of them. But, in some ways, they were heroes to people. These days, with the inner city street gangs and the drug problem, it’s real nasty, and the authorities only skim the surface. In those days, these people, who eventually turned into quite terrible, obscene monsters, had a period when they were bigger than the establishment.”
The men around the Torrio empire were now all calling Louis either “Jew-kid” or “The Pianist.”
“It meant I was accepted by them—not that I’m proud of that, Herb. As I told you already, there was no true honor among these people. But, when you were given a nickname, you had arrived. God help me, I felt quite proud when someone told me that Capone had boasted about Louis ‘the Pianist.’ He’d said, ‘That guy’s some kinda genius. Plays ragtime and Rossini, both.’ I had become a personality, Herbie. Years later, I even read one of the books about the Capone era and there I was, in print, twice. Two mentions of Louis ‘the Pianist’ Packer, and only a couple of people ever knew it was me.
One evening, some three months after he had started to play at The Barn, Louis met the man who was, eventually, to change the course of his life.
The meeting took place at a special function which Louis heard about only at the last moment. On this particular night, Carlo came down into the club just after it had opened, sought out Louis, and told him that he was required urgently. “This is a command performance, buddy. The boss just called.” He did not say whether it was Torrio or Capone. “They’re sending a car over for ya at eleven, and he wants ya all slicked up. Taking ya to the Hawthorn Hotel. They’re all out at the opera and they’re bringing back this big star—what they call ’em? a prima donna—who’s promised to sing for them. Pianist, yer gonna provide the music for the star.”
The prima donna turned out to be the internationally famous soprano Amelita Galli-Curci, praised and revered in every opera house in the world.
A large private room in the Hawthorn Hotel had been set up for the reception. Tables were loaded with food; waiters stood at the ready, and there was champagne—“The real stuff, from France”—and Louis recognized the great lady immediately when she arrived: a dark and very attractive woman personally escorted by both Torrio and Capone, together with ten or eleven of their lieutenants surrounding them.
“I’d never seen these people looking so smart and prosperous, Herb. Sure, Capone and Torrio were always well turned out, but that night it was special. Even people like Jake Guzik and Frank Nitti wore tuxedos, and Capone looked slim and really elegant. Boy, they were so proud to have the diva there.”
Capone was at his most charming when he brought the soprano over to introduce her to Louis.
“My first impression was that she treated me as a musician of equality. Herbie, that truly popped my socks. I never forgot her.”
She had smiled at Louis and said, “Mr. Torrio and Mr. Capone tell me that you’re a fine pianist and know the major opera scores by heart. Is this true?”
Capone left her alone with Louis who somehow managed to remain calm, though the very name of Galli-Curci would send some accompanists into utter panic. His old teacher, he told her, used to say he had a perfect ear. “I seem to be able to get through the essentials once I’ve heard a piece played.”
“Rigoletto?” she asked.
He nodded, “Of course.”
“Gilda’s aria in the first act?—‘Caro nome che il mio cor’?”
“Oh, yes,” Louis nodded again. It was that aria which made Verdi’s opera such a great attraction for a soprano.
“Good,” she smiled. “Bene. We do that last. You know, the role of Gilda has brought me great success: my first triumph in Rome, Milan, and here, in Chicago. Gilda is very lucky for me.”
“Are you in Chicago to repeat the triumph?”
With a laugh she told him, no, this would be her only performance. “I am here only to do some negotiations. I leave in two days.” She was on her way to New York to start rehearsals at the Met.
Quickly she shifted the conversation, returning to matters in hand. What else would they perform? She settled on “The Last Rose of Summer”—“I often use it, accompanying myself, in the lesson scene for Il Barbiere”—and “Home Sweet Home.”
Louis thought these were odd choices for a prima donna of such standing, and the idea crossed his mind that she might have selected the songs to make it easier for him. But she quickly disillusioned him, saying that these were airs she liked to sing. “Also”—she gave a sly smile—“these people really want to hear me sing an Italian aria. Doing the two popular songs in English, first, will whet their appetites. So, there will be great applause for the Rigoletto.” Louis would have sworn that she winked at him.
Very professional, he thought. Being Italian herself, but with great knowledge of American ways, she had hit on a perfect combination which would be the most successful with the small gathering. He wondered if she would dare try the same trio of songs in concert back in Italy. He guessed she probably would, and for the same reasons: effect and climax.
When their performance began, Madame Galli-Curci led, rather than allowing Louis to accompany her, during “The Last Rose”; but she let him set the pace for “Home Sweet Home.” By the time they reached “Caro nome,” she put complete trust in him and, in a strange way, Louis’ playing could have been that of a whole orchestra, not just a piano. He went into the introduction before the beautiful, clear soprano voice cut through the thick tense air in the room—“Gualtier Maldé,” she sang, then on into the fully developed melody, “Caro nome che il mio cor.” The room seemed to contain a great charge of static electricity. “Walter Maldé … Dear name, my heart enshrines.”
Louis could almost see the scene from the opera—Rigoletto’s daughter, Gilda, lighting her candle, gracefully ascending the steps from the courtyard to her room; believing she had a lover called Walter Maldé; deceived by the lecherous Duke of Mantua, a deception that would eventually bring about her own death: a sacrifice to save her imagined lover from the hands of her father. Galli-Curci’s voice soared into the high notes, seemed to poise, hanging in the air, then moved easily up and down the scale to the end of the aria.
The ruthless, tough, murderous men—her audience—were visibly moved, emotionally affected, by the performance, and why not? Louis thought. Grand opera was really an extension of their own life-styles—Rigoletto planning the murder of his daughter’s suitor, employing a hired killer, just as Carlo had intimated Torrio had, engaged Frankie Yale to kill his uncle. Power, murder, revenge: these were
the overlying themes of grand opera, and the themes by which these men lived.
After basking in the lengthy applause and cheers, Madame Galli-Curci leaned towards him. Louis, completely in her spell, thought she did not look anywhere near her forty years.
“You work for these people?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You play the piano in their … their establishments?”
“Yes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Brahms did it. Brahms played in …” Louis searched for an inoffensive word. “He played in houses of ill repute.”
She gave a little laugh. “Oh, yes, and he was never married. He used prostitutes all his life.” She suddenly became very grave. “You, my friend, have a great talent. Please, please use it as it should be used. Do not squander it.”
“To squander it I have to make something of it first.”
She smiled again, then nodded, before allowing herself to be led away by Torrio. Capone was left by the piano for a moment. “Ya did okay, Jew-kid. Now play something while we eat, huh? Something classy, okay?”
Louis began to play his own transcriptions from the works of great Italian operatic composers: Rossini, Puccini, Verdi.
“I tell you, Herbie, that night I surprised even myself. It was like waking up to the fact that my years with Aaron Hamovitch had taught me so much.”
Presently a waiter came over with a small bottle of champagne and some sandwiches. The man said Mr. Capone wanted him to eat. “Ya can knock off the music for a few minutes.” His tone was that of the hired help talking to the hired help.
Louis poured himself some of the champagne, and took a bite at one of the sandwiches. He did not even stop to think about what it contained. Since leaving his family in New York he had ceased to worry about his inherited religion. It occasionally gave him small twinges of guilt, but his first object now was survival, and in this place, with these people, he could not afford to be a slave to the Sabbath, or the old food laws of his people. As it happened, the sandwiches were filled with smoked salmon—“Herb, I think it was during this time that I acquired not only a taste for good clothes, but also a desire for only the best in food. Whenever I hear ‘Coro nome che il mio cor,’ my taste buds explode and I get a craving for smoked salmon. Unbelievable! When my opera company was only rehearsing Rigoletto, the staff knew they should have smoked salmon to hand.”
