Extreme Justice Page 5

  This was news to Ben. “How long ago was this?”

  Earl shrugged. “Oh, ’bout a million and five years. Back when I was makin’ magic with the one and only Professor Hoodoo.”

  Professor Hoodoo? Ben had heard the name bandied about before, but he didn’t know anything about him. “Was he a jazz musician?” Ben ventured.

  “Was he a jazz musician?” Earl shot back. “The boy wants to know if Professor Hoodoo was a jazz musician. You tell him, Scat.”

  Scat cleared his throat. “He was the jazz musician. He was the man what put us all to shame. Until the day he laid down his sugar stick for the last time, he was the king.”

  “ ’Fraid I don’t know much about this funksterator myself,” Gordo said. “What’s his story?”

  Earl closed his eyes. “Professor Hoodoo was a giant. He towered over the rest of us, leavin’ us in the wake of his mighty strides. When he played, everybody listened—like they had no choice. His music commanded attention. He could take a two-bit tune by some Tin Pan Alley hack and make it burn like lightnin’! He could make it somethin’ it never was, somethin’ better than anybody’d ever thought it could be, because the music came from inside him. He was one of the special ones, one of the men who’s born with it, one of the chosen few who’s got music burnin’ in their brains and no holes in their souls.” He paused, wiping his brow. “When Professor Hoodoo played, you heard the truth, and you heard it from the man who knew, ’cause he’d been there. He’d lived it.”

  Earl leaned against the stage, his eyes still closed. “ ’Course that was twenty-plus years ago. It’s all jus’ a memory now.”

  “What happened to him?” Ben asked.

  Earl drew in his breath, then released it all at once, in a heavy sigh. “The world happened to him, son. Like it always does to genius. Other people’s petty needs and ambitions came weighin’ down on his shoulders. Some folks didn’t care for a black man doin’ so well. Some wanted to take him out of the clubs and move him up—give him hotel gigs and TV spots. Make him the white man’s be-bopper.” Earl paused meaningfully. “Sometimes he got his heart broke. ’Course, that happens to everyone. But when the Professor’s heart broke, it was like he felt the pain of every broken romance in the world, like he could feel all our pain. Small wonder he needed salvation. Small wonder he began to develop … bad habits.”

  “You mean—”

  “By the time I played with him, he was a man carryin’ many burdens. His color. His habit. And his genius. All of them burdens, all of them things this old world treats none too kindly. Any fool could see he couldn’t carry that load forever. Eventually, somethin’ had to break. But through it all, the Professor played like an angel, like the angels wish they could play. Small wonder they called him home. I expect that celestial choir never heard licks like the ones Professor Hoodoo brought with him.”

  “Then he’s—”

  “Yeah.” Earl slowly opened his eyes. “He’s gone. And the sad part is, he never made a recording. We’ve got no record of what that man could do. Except the record a few of us keep locked up in our memories. And in our souls. Right, Scat?”

  Scat nodded gravely. “That’s right, Earl.”

  Earl pushed off the edge of the stage. “But you boys ain’t so sorry yourself. You just ain’t in the groove yet. You’ve let too many other things distract you from the truth. Remember that’s all you got to do when you’re up there playin’. Just make your music, and make it the truth.”

  His head dropped, and Ben could swear he saw traces of moisture glimmering in the corners of Earl’s eyes. “So you play that number again, you hear? From the top. But this time, you let the Professor’s spirit guide you. You play it for him. ’Cause when you play for Professor Hoodoo—you got no choice. You got to play the truth.”

  The truth was, he was too old for this kind of work.

  Or felt too old, anyway. He dropped his bundle onto the floor, just outside the club. He was dripping with sweat; his hands were so wet he could hardly hold on to the rug.

  Man alive! Next time he thought up some elaborate fonky-monkey business, he’d think again. Simple was good, he reminded himself. Like in jazz and geometry—the straight line is best.

  He peered through the window of the double doors in the front of the club. It was mostly empty. A couple of the band members were on the stage, but he could tell they were finishing up. Soon the coast would be clear.

  Since he was alone, he took the opportunity to roll down the rug a bit and take one last look at his once-glorious bundle.

  There was something wrong with her face; it only took him a moment to recall what it was. Of course—he’d forgotten her smile. He had meant to address this earlier; the smile was very important. But with all the trouble he’d had moving her, he’d almost forgotten.

  After checking to make sure no one was watching, he pulled his long serrated knife out of its sheath. She was long dead, so there would be no bleeding; that was a relief, anyway.

  He took a deep breath. The first incision was the hardest. Best to get it over with.

  As he laid his knife against her icy flesh, he found himself involuntarily squinching his eyes shut. What do you know? he thought to himself. After all he had done, he still had some sensitivity. He could still be squeamish. Especially when it came to her. Especially when it came to her.

  But enough of this foolishness. He had work to do.

  He closed his eyes and began to carve.

  Chapter 7

  “NO, NO, NO!” Uncle Earl leaned across the piano, his fists clenched. “Slow down already. That ain’t no damn typewriter you’re playin’!”

  Ben pursed his lips. Earl had been trying to help him whip this new number into shape so they could use it tonight as an encore piece, if required. It wasn’t coming easily. “But this is supposed to be lively, right? We’re still playing jazz, aren’t we?”

  “We’re playing the blues, son. There’s a difference.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Only a fool plays the blues like Machine Gun Kelly. This ain’t no race, son. You’re makin’ music. You got to let your instrument sing. You got to caress it slow and easy, like a woo-man.”

  Ben flushed. “Let’s not get too passionate here.”

  “And why not? What do you think the blues are, Ben? What do you think music is? It’s the language of love, son. The one and only international language of love.” He grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “Your problem is, you need to loosen up. Don’t be so pent-up, so reserved. When you play the blues, you got to let yourself go.”

  “I’m not very good at letting myself go.”

  “No foolin’.” Earl grinned, then slapped him hard on the back. “You keep workin’ on it. I got stuff to take care of before the show starts.” He sauntered off toward the bar, leaving Ben at the piano.

  Ben ran through the number (“Since I Don’t Have You”) a few more times, but no matter how hard he tried to remember what he had been told, no matter how hard he tried to caress it slow and easy like a woo-man, he knew he wasn’t getting it. Oh, he’d get through it, if he had to, just as he got through their regular set every night. But in his heart, he knew he wasn’t feeling it, not deep down in the core of his soul. He was just playing what he had learned, imitating, doing what he’d been told. He might be competent, but he would never be great.

  “Ten more minutes, then I need you off the stage.”

  Ben looked up. It was Diane Weiskopf, their stage manager. She was dressed in black slacks and a black tank top. A black leather jacket hung off one shoulder. Her hair was blonde, with dark streaks, but it had all been gelled into pointed spikes that encircled her head like a halo.

  “I need to get the stage ready as soon as possible. Earl wants everything just right tonight. Okay, Benji?”

  Ben bit down on his lower lip. “My name is Ben. Benji is a trained dog who—”

  “Yeah, I know. But you’re both cute.” She laughed, stroking her spikes. “So
get off the stage, okay?”

  Ben wouldn’t have dreamed of arguing. She was the toughest person at the club, probably the toughest person he knew. When he’d first met her, he figured her for the bouncer. “Lemme see if I can get this one song down, then I’ll be out of here.”

  “Well …”

  “Just one more song.”

  “This isn’t one of those endless Harry Chapin numbers, is it?”

  Ben grimaced. Great to see that his abortive audition effort was already becoming legend. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Well, all right then. But ten minutes, tops.”

  Ben gave it a few more run-throughs, then decided to call it quits. Even if he made a mistake, he knew Scat or Gordo would just hike up the volume and cover it. It wouldn’t really matter. They were used to covering for him.

  He jumped off the stage and walked toward the front door. He wanted to get some fresh air before the crowd started rolling in. It would do him some good, he figured. Or at least he hoped.

  Just before he got to the front of the club, he saw a stranger coming in. It was hard to see clearly; the lights inside were dim and the sunlight outside cast the man in silhouette. Ben couldn’t make out his face, but he could see that he had bushy Afro-style hair and an equally bushy beard. He was wearing dark glasses.

  “Where you want the rug?” the man barked, still several paces away from Ben.

  There was something odd about the man’s voice, but Ben couldn’t quite place it. “The rug?”

  “Got orders to deliver a rug. Wants it backstage, I hear.”

  “Backstage?” Ben had heard nothing about a new rug, but that didn’t mean much. He knew Earl had been fretting himself sick about this anniversary show. Maybe he decided they needed a rug. Probably thought it might muffle some of the backstage noise.

  “Go to it, then,” Ben said. He dipped his head, and the workman sailed right past him.

  Ben passed through the double doors and stepped out into the bright sunlight. He didn’t see any of the other band members hanging around; they must have gone somewhere—maybe down to Nelson’s for a quick chicken-fried steak.

  Ben kicked at the gravel in the driveway. He wished he’d been invited along, wherever they went. But this was not the first time they had neglected to include him in their group. Oh, they were always cordial. Even friendly. But he never had the feeling he was one of the gang. Try as hard as he might, he knew that in their minds they were true jazz musicians, and he was some white kid who played the piano pretty well.

  After a few minutes in the sun, Ben saw Earl up the street coming around the corner. He was moving at a slow trot, although after he spotted Ben he eased into a walk. Ben suspected he was trying to get some exercise and work off some anxiety at the same time. He talked a lot about trying to lose all his extra weight, although Ben had seen few signs of progress.

  “Out for a jog?” Ben asked as Earl approached.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Earl said, suddenly embarrassed. “I was just … lookin’ around. I thought she mighta gotten lost or somethin’.” He changed the subject quickly. “What you doin’ out here? Shouldn’t you be huddled over the piano, trying to set some new land speed record?”

  “I decided to take a break. And to make room for the rug man.”

  “The rug man. What you talkin’ about?”

  A line formed across Ben’s forehead. “The workman in the ’fro. Came to deliver a rug backstage.”

  “I never asked for no rug backstage.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.” Earl glanced at his watch. “Damn. And the show starts in barely half an hour. I don’t have time for this.” He rushed past Ben and headed into the club.

  Ben followed close behind. There was hardly any reason to panic. What was the worst that could happen—they could get stuck with a rug they didn’t want? Still, something about the whole situation gave him a creepy feeling. Maybe it was just nerves, or stage fright, but he’d had this feeling before and it never boded well.

  Tyrone Jackson strolled into Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium feeling rich as Midas. He had changed out of those tacky overalls and put on a multicolored African jacket with a snazzy collarless shirt. He was ready to kick back and have a good time. What with all the loot he’d made at the bus station today, he could treat himself to a drink, maybe even find some young lovely and treat her as well.

  Now that was something he could get into. A couple of tall cool ones, some hot jazz licks, and a beautiful babe-a-rino. That would be excellent indeed.

  He saw the door guard, just now coming on duty. He was new, someone Tyrone had never seen before.

  “Ten bucks a head,” the man said.

  “Sure thing,” Tyrone replied, reaching for his wad. He started to withdraw the bill, then stopped. “Unless …” He glanced up at the man. “Naw. You’re probably not the type.”

  The man frowned. “The type for what?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Tyrone held out the ten-spot. “You’d never go for it.”

  The man leaned forward, an angry expression on his face. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  Tyrone held up his hands. “All right, chill. It just so happens I have some inside information on the fifth race at Remington tomorrow.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Like I said, you’re not the type.” Again, Tyrone held out the bill.

  “Not the type for what?

  “Not the type to take a chance to get ahead. No, you’re the play-it-safe type. Don’t take risks. That’s why you’re working a crummy job at a nightclub and probably always will be.”

  “Now listen here—”

  “But what would you say if I offered you a chance to increase your investment by ten times—overnight?”

  “I’d say you’re full of it.”

  “Of course you would. Because you haven’t got the imagination. That’s the problem with the world today. The ones with the guts—like me—ain’t got the money. The ones with the money—like you—ain’t got no guts.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “It’s this simple.” He began talking at a rapid pace. “Momo gots a grudge against Jojo and they’ve both got horses in the fifth but Momo has some money riding background with the boys so he has to win but Jojo’s gonna take it as a point of personal honor if he does and figures if he beats Momo he looks better with his boys and strengthens his territory maybe even expands it but Momo is determined not to let that happen so he’s hired a fixer. Follow me so far?”

  “Huh?”

  “Momo hires a fixer but Jojo hears about it and hires his own fixer and Jojo’s fixer takes out Momo’s fixer and Momo don’t know it so he thinks he’s gonna win the race and all the easy money is on him but it gonna be Jojo’s horse I’m telling you it’s gonna be Jojo’s and there’s big money to be made at ten-to-one odds. Ten to one! And it’s a sure thing.”

  “A sure thing, huh?”

  “Absolutely. You lay down the money. I lay down the bet. And we split the profit.”

  “Split it? But—”

  “Hey, I’ve got the know-how, you’ve got the bucks. It’s a partnership.”

  Grumbling, the man pulled out his wallet. “I’ll put down a hundred.”

  “Great. Just give me ninety—you can take my door admission out of the rest.

  “Well—”

  “Excellent.” He snatched the money out of the man’s hands. “The race runs about noon. I’ll get in touch with you right after. Like I said, it’s a sure thing. Unless, of course, Momo finds out. But I don’t think that’ll happen. Really. Probably.”

  “Hey, T-Dog!”

  Tyrone whirled around. Damn! It was one of the musicians, one that recognized him and knew his street name. That was the problem with plying your craft in a place where too many people knew who you were.

  “All said and done now,” Tyrone said, shoving the doorman’s money into his pocket. “Be seeing you.”

  “But
…”

  Too late. Tyrone skittered inside, ninety bucks the richer after paying his gate admission. He strolled into the heart of the club and angled for a chair at one of the tables in front of the stage, trying to avoid the musician on the other side who had recognized him. Just as he was about to sit, he saw a large man coming out the backstage door. And he did not look happy.

  Tyrone didn’t have to look twice to recognize that face. He remembered all his marks, especially the recent ones, and that man walking into the club was the same bozo Tyrone had scammed not two weeks ago. He’d used a wire scam, quick and painless, and made about two hundred smackers. Small change, but he still figured the man wasn’t going to embrace him with open arms.

  The world was getting entirely too small.

  Tyrone did an about-face and moved toward the bar. He could see the man’s reflection in the glass behind the bar; he knew he was heading toward the front doors. Tyrone steered himself to the opposite side.

  He saw a sign pointing the way to the men’s room. Perfect. He needed to take a leak anyway. He walked briskly down the corridor, then dived into the men’s room.

  He moved quietly toward the stalls in the back. He slipped into the nearest one and quickly took care of business. Just as he left the stall, he spotted something glistening on the grungy tile floor. Most men probably wouldn’t have noticed, but Tyrone had a sixth sense. He could smell filthy lucre whenever he came near it.

  He scooped the object up off the floor. He could have a ring to the pawnshop in—wait a minute. It wasn’t a ring; it was long and flat. There was engraving on one side; it looked like some sort of stylized B.

  He shrugged. Well, it was still gold—or gold-looking, anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. He slid it into his coat pocket and made a mental note to give it some further scrutiny at a later date.

  As he turned, he noticed a man standing at the sink. The man raised his hands toward his big Afro … and removed it.

  He was wearing a wig! What in the—

  Tyrone looked away, suppressing a smile. A drag queen, no doubt. He knew they hung out in some of the jazz clubs—worked in some of them, for that matter.