"Hire a good plastic surgeon," said D. Noble. "He'll take twenty years off you, and even I won't recognize seeing you. Tell him to fix you up with a handsome face that’s irresistible to the ladies."
"That doesn't come too cheap, and my health insurance sucks," I said.
"Why didn't you build up a stake?" asked D. Noble.
"I doubled up on the mortgage payments to my split-level to become a homeowner," I replied. “After all these years, I never dreamed Mr. Ogg would use me like he did."
"Now you know," said D. Noble. "Don't let the bastards, especially like him, beat and grind you down."
I nodded. "Always."
T
he quintessential alto saxophonist Charlie Parker who died the year before I was born—1955—got the nickname "Bird,” shortened from his longer sobriquet "Yardbird." Or so the old jazz aficionados had passed on to me as a kid growing up in
Champagne
's Folly. He died at a creaky old 34, his body ravaged by the hard years of heroin addiction. He was my boyhood hero, and a supernova musical talent who shuffled off this mortal coil way too damn soon.
One brisk winter morning when as I was out walking and ruminating on Bird and me, I bumped into a music shop I'd never seen before along one street south of the old switchyard. Things had gone slow since Mr. Ogg relented and took Rita and Gwen for a week's fling in balmy, sunny
Montego Bay
. My days with no Ogg pitfalls in them had made things roll along a lot smoother.
After ducking into the music shop, I whiffed the lemon furniture polish. My eyes used to the sunlight didn't have to adjust to the bright space. I gave the counter display of harmonicas (in
Texas
we called them "blues harps") a cursory glance. Neither did the tacky yellow and blue rockabilly guitars arrayed along the center aisle attract my notice. The bevy of alto and tenor saxophones showcased along the rear wall beckoned me. My fingertips itched, but only my eyes grazed their silvery contours lush as a bride's fresh curves unwrapped behind closed doors on her honeymoon night.
"Are you interested in a horn, mister?" The high-pitched timbre was a kid's that my half-pivot faced.
"Are you Lonnie Gasho?" I asked to deflect his question. "I saw your name printed over the door."
"Just Lonnie." Eyes as rapt as mine, he lifted the shiniest sax by its bell and bottom bow, delicate and careful not to bend the keys. His tone was also solicitous. "Just dig the superior quality. Sterling silver nick. Gold lacquered keys. Engraved bell. To sweeten the pot, I'll throw in the case, strap, and mouthpiece. What do you say? You can't land one of better craftsmanship. I'd be quick to advise you not to grab up any bargains plugged sight unseen on eBay or Craigslist."
Lank as a lamp pole, he squinted as if he should consult an optometrist. Acne, old and new, scarred his prominent cheekbones. He wore chinos and penny loafers, no socks or coins. "All the saxes are slashed by half-price. I'm under pressure to move the merchandise."
My smile was regretful. "Sorry, but I'm just an avid admirer, not a player at all. You've got a nice shop here."
"Thanks. Granddad—he owned it and left it to me—was cast from the same mold as you are."
"Sorry for your loss."
"I still miss him." Lonnie shoved his bladelike hands into his jeans pocket. "So, you're only browsing and not buying?"
"I'm afraid so, Lonnie."
"Damn. I'm really trying to push product."
"Oh? What's the big rush?"
"I'm strapped, and this shop is all I’ve got going for me."
"Are you selling it, too?"
"In this down market, I wish I could unload it on a developer with deep pockets."
"That's a crying shame. You don't see many shops like yours now."
"I'd love to keep it running if just in his memory. He lived and breathed jazz and even inked a bass clef tattoo when he was younger than me. Imagine that. He told me his war stories, but none rubbed off, I guess. My musical tastes run more to hip-hop."
I only nodded at his preference, not mine at all. "Did he have the opportunity to watch Bird blow?"
"Oh yeah, believe it. Granddad was from the Big Apple, and I never heard the end of how Bird did this, and Bird did that. To him, Bird was God Almighty. He could do no wrong, Bird that is."
"Man, I envy your grandfather."
Acting antsier, Lonnie shifted his wiry frame in his loafers. "Listen, are you actually here for the collections? The word I get is they're sending a new bag man, and you're the only different guy who's been in the shop today."
He refused to meet my incredulous stare. "What collections?"
"Guess you're not. Sorry then. Just forget what I told you."
"No, this comes as a shocker. Who's putting the bite on you, Lonnie?"
He shrugged a shoulder. "Who said anything like that?"
"You just did, so don't clam up. I'm on your side, and I can help you."
"I've already shot off my big mouth too much, and they'll take it out on me."
"You’ve got it wrong. Nobody should be running the protection rackets in this 'hood.” I sharpened my voice. “Who's been hammering on you, Lonnie?"
"Beats me, mister. I don't ask for their names. The pair of leg-breakers stood where you are now demanding cash. What could I do? Buy a Glock and make my Custer's Last Stand? Hardly. I took the easy out and paid them. Now you know why I'm so strapped, and why all the saxes are discounted by half-off, and why I want to bail as soon as I can scrape together enough cash."
"Report the extortion to your police department."
Lonnie used a hollow cackle. "Police. Right. Can they assign me a full-time bodyguard? Hell, no. Post a security detail at my shop door 24/7? Hell, no. I just pay off the leg-breakers, and my life at least stays within the realm of tolerable."
"My boss is the top crime dog in
Old
Yvor
City
."
The worldly Lonnie didn't act surprised by the disclosure of my affiliation. "Not anymore he isn't."
I frowned. This wasn't the sort of negative tidings Mr. Ogg on vacation liked to hear, and I liked even less to report it. My stopping by to ogle the saxes had been a slip up, but it was too late to take back now. I knew if I brushed this off, and the word I did got back to Mr. Ogg, the aftermath wouldn’t be fun to contemplate.
"You got a phone?" I asked Lonnie.
He fished out a cell phone and foisted it at me.
I shook my head. "Not over the airwaves. I only speak on a landline phone."
"No such phone has been plugged in here for years. Just the one is at the patty joint on the next block up. You can't miss it for the greasy smell."
"Good. Can you bust a dollar?"
"I think so." Lonnie scooped out a fistful of silver from the register’s cash drawer. "Will four quarters do?"
I nodded and pocketed the quarters. After I departed from the music shop, I skated over the icy sidewalks while looking sharp for the patty joint. It was a very cold morning. The north wind stung my cheeks with its needle-like fury, and I wished I'd stuffed on my ski cap, muffler, and gloves.
Halfway there, I realized a call placed from Washington, D.C. to Montego Bay, Jamaica, would cost a lot more change than what jingled in my pocket. Just as Lonnie had said, the gunky smoke flew up my nostrils before I saw the patty joint and hiked through the beveled glass door into the band box space.
The clientele was the 55+ crowd—hey, I fit right in there—at the counter-only seating. Burgers, meatloaf, and chicken pot pie headed the menu washed down with coffee, espresso, and milkshakes. The pay phone was in the rear between two windows, their blue damask curtains looking new. Nobody, including the matronly server, gave me a second glance.
I routed my collect phone call to
Montego Bay
, using the emergency number Mr. Ogg had pressed into my palm as their airport cab shuffled up to his bungalow. After my phone operator—probably a kid located in Mumbai or
Bangalore
—patched me through, Mr. Ogg accepted the reversed charges and spoke.
"Tommy Mack…Is that you?...This had better be important…What's up?"
I stamped my feet to get a tingle back in my near frostbitten toes. "We've got competition, sir. A couple of goons are extorting the shop owners by the old switchyard."
His long distance sigh was gravelly. "It was bound to happen. Are the city cops in the loop?"
"The scared kid Lonnie Gasho I just talked to thinks the police can't protect him or his music shop."
"He's right. Are they kikes or spics?"
"Just a couple of punk asses, I'd say. Do I handle them?"
"You got the green light. Go. Now."
"Is there a clean piece at the bungalow?"
"Screw using a clean piece. Do it Luca Brasi."
I whistled though my teeth. "Damn, you're sending a message."
"A loud, clear message is the only way."
"I'll buzz you after it's done."
Mr. Ogg chortled like a gleeful ghoul. "Happy hunting."
"By the way, how are your nieces?"
"As always, they're being royal pains in the ass, but I still love 'em just the same. Yesterday we took a bus tour of the island. The damn air conditioner was busted, and the sun is oven hot. In the plus column, I ran into a couple of interesting gents at the roulette wheel. They're in a similar commerce, and we might partner in the future."
"Don't forget me. Maybe I can fly down, do them a piece of work, and soak up the rays."
"You've got your job there, Tommy Mack. Do it. This infringement can't go on any longer."
We hung up, and I had my marching orders, but first off I ordered a venti cup of coffee and Danish. Then I slogged back to the music store. During my frigid trek I went over the ABCs of a Luca Brasi. Phone cords had been the instrument of choice, but the cell phone scourge had ruined that. Lonnie, behind the counter, watched me schlep into his warmer music store, and he waved as if he was pleased to see me back this soon, or at all.
"Piano wire?" I asked him.
Vertical frown lines split his forehead. "I stock rolls of carbon steel music wire."
"Is it strong?"
He squinted. "Well, maybe…Are you using it for musical purposes?"
Lowering a wink at him, I stroked my throat. "Trunk music."
"Right. Well, I can set you up, but will my problem go away?"
"Give me two days. How much do I owe you for the wire?"
"No charge. I feel as if I owe you a big vote of thanks."
"Thanks are appreciated but not needed, kid. I'm paid to take care of my boss's affairs."
M
y manhunt began when I went after the pair of amateurs high on chutzpah but low on brains. I asked the right questions to the right street snitches. The thugs, as it turned out, were brothers who bivouacked in a Colonial near Merrifield undergoing a big gentrification push. Just a tick shy of midnight, I did a B&E at the Colonial where I sat at the kitchen table—the smell was peachy sweet from their doing bong hits—and thawed out and limbered up my fingers twining the piano wire into practice loops to yank tight.
One brother lay snoring upstairs in his semi-dark bedroom. He got it first. Then I snaked my way downstairs. The second brother was still up, ogling some kiddie porn from his laptop. I jumped him, this time not worried by the noise of the laptop sent crashing to the floor. Lonnie was spot on—the carbon steel wire didn't kink up or snap in two. I left both stiffs at the Colonial and went off to contact Mr. Ogg again at the posh
Montego Bay
hotel.
"It's done."
"Stellar, Tommy Mack," he rejoiced. "Are you on a coin phone?"
"Always. Now we have to ditch the stiffs."
"No, I already told you I want to make an example out of them."
"A slight glitch might derail that plan."
"You better give it to me."