…and the Fox in the Town
The coffee had cooled to tepid by the time he had finished, but the woman, Vadoma, brought in a new tray, with fresh coffee and different pastries, and we again attended to the rhythm of the game. Or maybe we were doing something else. This time, Vadoma didn’t leave. She stood off in a corner of the room, behind me, with her arms folded, as if she were waiting for orders of some kind. Or acting as a guard. I began to think I was being deliberately detained.
“You’re right,” I said. “I like your story. How much of it is true?”
“Truth, you want, also? Sometimes truth is more eel than fish, my friend. It is a story. I was not there when it happened, nor was the man who told it to me, nor, I’m sure, the man who told it to him. But for us, it is always a question of how much needs to be true, to be useful.”
“And how much of this needs to be true?”
“Only the bones. It accounts for many things. There was a violin, famous among our people, that disappeared about that time. There is no doubt about that. And it was valuable, so it should have turned up in a market somewhere, sooner or later, but it did not. Believe me, we would have known.
“There was also a young Gypsy man who vanished, but that is less in need of explanation. Many, many were lost in that terrible time. The Jews like to think the Holocaust is their own personal horror, but there were many other groups targeted, as well. The only difference is that some of the others were better at running away. We Rom have been running for a long time. Our instinct for it is well developed. Still, many were killed.”
“But some were not.”
“Just so. And those who were not, but were scattered across the earth, told their stories to anybody who would listen. That’s important to us, always. Stories travel, just like people. And if a man’s story makes its way back to the
Natsia
, they will know to look for him.”
“And put a light in the window?” I said.
“Something like that, yes.”
“But nobody came to the light.”
“Many came, after the war, but not a young man with a violin. There has been no epilogue to the story until you came here.” He spread his hands out on the table, as if it were my turn to speak. While I debated what to say, the woman stepped forward and whispered something short and urgent into Yonkos’ ear. He nodded and gestured to her to be calm.
“If I’m supposed to come to a conclusion from all that,” I said, “I don’t know what it is.”
“Then, maybe it’s your turn to tell a story, to match mine. I have already heard one other, you see, about a man named Jackson who killed a poor Gypsy woman and stole her violin.”
And as suddenly as it had begun, the party was over.
“From a bent cop named Evans? It’s a lie,” I said.
“Of course it is.” He spread his hands again, smiling. “All stories are lies, at some level. The question, Mr. Jackson, is whose story is more useful, yours or his? And which one will get the famous violin back where it belongs? If I were you, I would be making this simple Gypsy an offer right now.”
“The violin for Amy Cox’s murderer?”
“That would be fair, wouldn’t it? But I do not have that to offer, I’m afraid. You will have to settle for the violin for your freedom. You see, I’ve already been offered the violin for your head. Or some part of your anatomy, anyway. But I don’t think the man, Evans, has the object to offer yet. In fact, I’m not even sure he knows where it is. He may have the foolish notion that if he hurts, maims, and threatens to kill you, you will then take him to it.”
“And then he will kill me, anyway.”
“He does seem to want that very badly, yes. And it is a sad fact that policemen don’t seem to be capable of a small amount of innocent corruption. Once they step over the line, they lose their way completely, and there is nothing they won’t stoop to. A delicate thing, dealing with them.”
And with you
, I thought, and I casually let my right hand settle onto my lap, to reassure myself that the .380 was still in my pocket.
“But you are a different animal, aren’t you?” said Stefan.
Now where the hell is he going
? “I don’t think I’ve heard it put quite that way before. I take it that’s a compliment?”
“In a way, yes. As I said, I like you. And fool that I am, I’m sentimental about who I do business with.”
It was my turn to laugh, but I wasn’t sure if he had really been joking. “And if you indulge your foolishness and deal with me,” I said, “how would you be sure of delivery?”
“That is a problem,” he said. “Yes. With you or him. It comes down to trust. I think I do not trust Evans. Can I trust you?”
“Trust me to deliver the violin in return for no more than a dash out into Main Street at high noon, with a trigger-happy posse in hot pursuit? No. Hell, no. Without my name, I have no freedom.”
“And what if I can resolve that little problem for you?”
I thought about it for a minute, and about the many ways the game could play from there, and Uncle Fred’s advice that it could get bloody before it was done. For the moment, at least, Stefan seemed like the best option I had.
“Do that,” I said, “and you have yourself a deal.”
“A deal, you say. And a violin?”
“That’s the deal.”
“This I like. It is more difficult, but it will work.” His hands went palms-down on the table, and he nodded with his whole upper body. “I will make a call to our people in St. Paul, set something in motion. Mind you, we may not be able to find your killer…”
“It could be Evans himself, you know.”
“Or it could not. No matter. We can get you clear of the whole business without resolving that. We are good at getting clear, Mr. Jackson. Will this do?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes. Then it shall be so. But I have one last problem. I cannot look into your eyes to judge your sincerity.” Funny, but I’d have sworn he was doing exactly that.
“What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Shake my hand, Mr. Jackson.”
“Really? I thought Gypsies didn’t do that.”
“It is only a hand. It can be cleansed. Do it now. We do not have much time.”
We stood up and shook hands, and I wondered if he crushed croquet balls for idle amusement, or merely walnuts. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuringly firm grip in return, thinking I could find a physical therapist for my hand later. From her spot near the wall, Vadoma said, “
Ove yilo isi?
” Or something like it.
“Yes,” said Stefan.
“I think so, too,” she said.
“Then it’s unanimous,” I said. At least, I hoped that’s what it was.
“Push your chair away,” said Stefan.
“I don’t understand.”
“You understand ‘chair?’”
“Yes, but…”
“Then put it behind you, as the saying goes.”
I pushed my chair back with my heel, keeping my eyes on the man and woman. As I did so, he added, “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Jackson, I assure you. Now, prepare to have your horizons expanded.”
Then the lights went out.
***
I felt the breath go out of me with a violent whoosh and my knees buckle, and I was suddenly sitting down on something not quite soft. Sand, I decided, when I felt it with my hands. I had been dropped through a trap door, just like a stage magician, and I was sitting under the Rom office, on a dirt floor. Above me, I could hear muffled shouts and some frantic steps on the floor. I think the woman shouted, “No, don’t go that way! The police are out in front!” Then there were quick steps in that direction and the sound of a door being slammed, complete with the jingle bells.
The rest was not so clear. A heavier set of steps entered from the back, and there was a lot of angry shouting that I couldn’t quite make out. Evans’ voice was clear enough, though, screaming “Bullshit!” several times. Whether he was refusing to believe that I had fled through the front door or that the two Gypsies had tried to stop me, I couldn’t tell. The volume increased, but the clarity didn’t get any better. There was some scuffling, and the woman shrieked a couple times and somebody fell to the floor once, hard. If my newfound allies were doing a bit of street theater, they were very good at it. It was also possible that Evans was part of the show, as well, the three of them doing an elaborate shadow play for an audience that couldn’t peek through the curtain.
I sat tight and waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. It didn’t help. There wasn’t one candle’s worth of light in the whole damn place. The trap door above me was defined by a thin, faint yellow outline of light, but that was all, and it wasn’t much. Then the bullets punched some holes in the floor, and light came through them like tiny spotlight beams sprinkled with dust motes. In another life, I would have said they were pretty.
There were two shots at first, in rapid succession, then more shouting and then a third. The argument still continued after that, though, so I assumed Evans was just trying to intimidate people. By shooting through the floor, where he couldn’t hurt anybody, that is. Right. Swell. I hoped he had made his point.
Without really knowing what I was going to do with it, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the .380. It was a good thing I hadn’t had to draw it in a hurry, because after all the bouncing around of my recent travels, it came out pointing backwards, at me. I carefully corrected the error of its ways and held it in one of the light beams, to check whether there was a shell in the chamber. There wasn’t, but I couldn’t think of a silent way to put one there, so I left it for the moment. I didn’t check to see how many rounds I had in the magazine, either. Whatever the number was, it would have to be enough. I had no spares. I reached in another pocket and took out my lighter.
I could make out a pull chain in the gloom now, hanging from a bare light bulb, but I didn’t yank it. If Evans was restaging the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre upstairs, it probably wouldn’t be too good for him to see his bullet holes suddenly lighting up. But I figured I could risk the flame of the lighter.
I moved away from the sparkly light beams, to an outside wall of rough stone, and used my lighter and my considerable groping skills to work my way around to a doorway and into a narrow passageway beyond it. I wasn’t sure if I owed Stefan Yonkos anything else for that handshake, or even if he needed any help, but there was little enough I could do for him and Vadoma, in any case. I had a loaded gun, but the Marines don’t attack from the low ground, and neither would I. I stumbled through the moldy-smelling tunnel until I came to a dead end with a crude wooden ladder fastened to the wall, and I went up. The rungs were irregular and rotten, and it was slow going.
Behind me, the sounds were more muffled than before, but I clearly heard another shot and another thud on the floor. After that, the arguing voices were all male. Oh, shit. That stupid bastard, Evans, had shot the woman.
Shit, shit, shit. Goddamn him to hell!
I stopped on the ladder for a moment, then felt my feet going back down. Then they were on the floor and going back down the tunnel, the way I had come. I still had no idea what I was going to do, but somehow, now I couldn’t leave. I had done nothing but run and hide since this whole, sorry business started, and I just couldn’t do it any more. And at some level, I knew that just sticking around to be a through-the-floor witness wasn’t going to work, either. Maybe it was time to die, I wasn’t sure.
What the hell, everybody’s got to die of something.
It was damn sure somebody’s time.
My stomach was a solid knot when I got back to the area under the trap door, and I had to work hard at breathing. I was sweating heavily, too, and I did not imagine that it had anything to do with the temperature in the cellar. I swallowed the taste of tarnished pennies, decided that was just too damn bad, and looked up.
Above me, there were now only two holes letting light through the floor. I thought I could dimly see the third hole dripping some kind of liquid, but that was probably just my hyped-up imagination. The next two shots were real enough, though. The first was followed by a low, guttural cry, which could have been a Gypsy curse or just an involuntary grunt. After the second one, there was nothing. I jacked a shell into the magazine of the .380 and tried to find a place with enough light to let me see the sights. I think I heard myself snarl.
Evans must have heard me, too. I heard some confused muttering above, then a distinct shout.
“Jackson, you asshole, is that you? Are you hiding under this floor like the fucking rat you are? Answer me, or I’ll ventilate this place!”
One of the last two light-bearing holes went dark, and I assumed Evans was bending down to get a look or a better shouting spot.
This is it, kid. He’s a better shot than you are, he has the high ground, and he probably has more ammunition than you do. This is as good a chance as you get.
I pointed the gun up, held it in both hands, and emptied it into the floor around the darkened hole. Splinters of wood flew back in my face and the world was full of noise and fire. I found it strangely fascinating that I could hear the empty shells being ejected and clinking against each other on the floor, but I didn’t seem to hear the shots. Four of the rounds made new light-holes. The rest did not. Evans let out something that could have been either a scream or a shout or both. There were some more rapid shots, but this time, none of them came through the floor. Then everything fell deathly silent.
I found the pull chain again and jerked it, squinting at the sudden glare. I didn’t know what Evans’ state was, but there was no more point in being secretive. There was also no point in sticking around. Another ladder stood by the hinge side of the trap door, but I couldn’t see any way to trip the hatch from down here, so I headed back to the tunnel I had found before.
I was still drenched in sweat, but my breathing was easier now, and I took my time. Time went back to normal, and relief flooded through me like a cool tide. I seemed to be preoccupied with the monumental question of which I wanted more, a hot shower, a stiff drink, or a long, long nap.
Do it in the right order, and you can have it all.