Chapter Nine

 

          Otto watched the last vestige of color fade from the ocean horizon and give way to gray, the scant clouds high in the distance still showing a trace of pink and gold trim, a ship, well placed for its performance, becoming a sharp black silhouette against the darkening sky as it slid along the imperceptible curve of the Earth’s watery edge. He took another sip of red wine and leaned back in his chair, savoring this edition of the Sunset District’s seasonal autumn spectacle. It was the only time of year that it shed its perennial blanket of fog, the fog that customarily spread the sun’s afternoon rays into an eye scorching glare, dimming it to the perspective of some distant planet. It was the only time of year that gave some meaning to its name, and offered some relief to its well known rate of suicides, among the highest in the world.

          As the last notes of Wagner’s Twilight of the Gods died into stillness, the silence was broken by the low frequency growl of a car exhaust, pumped from an over-muscled engine into glass-packed mufflers. The sound, like the asthmatic purring of a giant cat, ceased abruptly, and Otto pulled aside the curtain to his corner office’s adjacent window. There was a yellow Trans Am, complete with spoiler and supercharger, parked outside.

          Otto watched as the driver got out and walked towards the machine shop door. He moved out of the office and through the shop, opening the door just as Yaro’s hand was lifted to knock. 

          “Come in, Yaroslav,” he said, with only the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

          “How did you know it was me?” said Yaro, smiling sweetly.

          Without answering, Otto turned and led the way through the shop and back into his office. He motioned Yaro to a chair and took his former seat by the window. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he blew his nose loudly, put away the handkerchief, and regarded his guest, the gray three piece suit, the wing tip shoes, the gold watch chain, without expression.

          “Do you think,” he said finally, “that Sonny has the slightest idea of what kind of shit he has gotten himself into?”

          “Are you a friend of his?” said Yaro.

          “No. And neither are you.”

          “We’re business partners.”

          “I am well acquainted with the Czech manner of doing business.”

          Yaro smiled and lit a cigarette.

          “If you don’t want to do business, why did you agree to see me?”

          “We can do business. But Czechs are not one of the most well-liked races of Europe.”

          “It’s nice that we have so much in common.”

          “Touché.” He gestured to the bottle on the table. “Some wine, perhaps?”

          “Why not?”

          Otto got down another glass.

          “So,” he said, pouring, “I suppose you are here to haggle over my price.”

          “No. I’m here to double it.”

          Otto raised an eyebrow.

          “Two thousands dollars? For a picture? Of a fake bomb?”

          “No,” said Yaro, raising his glass to his lips. “For a real one.”

 

 

 

         The sign was neon. At the corners, glowing images traced out a wild quartet. There was a scarlet cobra, in the classic pose, blowing on a horn, an amber lion pawing at an upright bass, a bright blue seated elephant pounding on piano keys. A silver monkey played the drums. JAZZ JUNGLE, it said, in wooden letters sprouting leaves. Andrey Dupree had paid a lot of money for the sign, a lot of money for the club’s interior, as well, the long mahogany bar, the lacquered wicker furniture, the jungley, phosphorescent murals on the walls, done by one of San Francisco’s most well known artists. He believed in class, believed that all of it would pay for itself in the end, and on nights like this one, it definitely looked like he was right. The club was packed.

         Stylish wooden booths lined the walls around the stage, each enclosed in a semi-gazebo that afforded privacy from those adjacent, and raised up three steps from the main floor, giving its occupants a view over the other tables, putting them at eye level with the musicians. His private one was the last on one side, next to the passage to the toilets and across from the end of the bar. From this vantage, he could look down its entire length and into the well, have easy access to the bartenders, and keep an eye on the bathroom traffic, also.

When he drank, it was good Scotch, Lafroig or Glen Morangie, but on many nights, like this one, he contented himself with bottled water and an occasional Coke. Unlike a lot of club owners, he hadn’t gotten into the business to drink or hustle his waitresses. He was a true Jazz lover, with no fantasies or talents of his own, but a sincere love and respect for the music, and a willingness to indulge musicians with the things they needed to make it. Two dressing rooms with a connecting private toilet, a good sound man with a system to match, free drinks for the band, all the stuff that would attract the best in the business, and keep their prices for the gigs at an affordable level. He trusted his taste, and liked to encourage new talent, not just touring stars. He’d stuck for years with Tony Squire, giving him house band status, and finally it was beginning to really pay off. The group was pulling in business way in excess of its loyal cult, regulars who found their favorite tables filled with well-heeled strangers now, like the four big-spending European dudes sitting up in front. Their CDs were selling nationwide.

He was digging their recent big sound, first the new songbird, definitely an attraction all by herself, and tonight this solid black cat on sax, his first gig at the Jungle. He and Tony were taking out Kind of Blue with a quiet unison horn duet, and the audience was maintaining a hushed reverence, tough for a big crowd on a Saturday night.

The piece finished to an appreciative round of applause, and Tony took the microphone from its stand, speaking with his low, faintly black accented voice.

“Let’s hear it for our new sax man, the jewel of the valley, as he’s known out Fresno way, Mr. Julius Washington.”

The applause swelled slightly as Julius took a bow.

“I want to thank everyone for makin’ the scene. Me and the band will be back in fifteen, you dig?”

The group left the stage, most of them disappearing through the backstage door to the left of the bandstand. Andrey heaved his more than ample bulk out of the booth and followed. He found Tony and Julius standing in the narrow hallway that led to the dressing rooms, smoking cigarettes and talking.

“Enjoyed your playing, Julius,” he said, taking Julius’ hand.

“You think he’s worth the extra money, Andrey?” said Tony.

“Time will tell on that, Tony. But I’m giving you the OK now. The music ‘s good enough for me. I support what I like. If the audience doesn’t agree, they can spend their money down the street.”

“Alright, Julius,” said Tony, thrusting his hand at Julius. “You got a job.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dupree,” said Julius, smiling. “But there’s just one thing.” He turned his attention back to Tony.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Ain’t nobody ever called me the fuckin’ jewel of the valley.”

 

 

 

Yaro was definitely enjoying himself. He liked the edge. He’d spent his whole life there, walking close to it, and hanging out in an American night club with three guys sent to kill him was about as close as you could get without actually falling off. Petr, the fat one, had turned out to be a pretty funny guy when he was a little drunk, the kind who collected jokes and couldn’t stop telling them, laughing through the whole thing in anticipation of how funny it was going to be when you got to the end. All three of them were having a pretty good time, and why not? A quick trip to the US had turned out to be a month long stay in San Francisco, all Europeans’ favorite American city, pretending to be big spending dope dealers out on the town. And hey, what could be more fun than having a few laughs with a guy you were going to whack later?

The new singer with the band was giving every male in the place a hard on, and they were no exceptions.

“So, Yaro,” said Pavel, “what about the hookers you promised us?”

“No problem,” said Yaro. “What’s your taste, light meat or dark?”

“Dark,” said Hunza, instantly. “I’m tired of Czech girls.”

“Yes,” said Petr, “we want a little neeger pussy. Ha, ha, ha. Hey, you know the one about the neeger stewardess and the Arab condom salesman?”

“Shut up, Petr,” said Pavel.

Yaro looked around the room, standing up a little in his chair.

“See that broad over by the bar?”

The three men turned their heads and stared for a moment.

“I’ll see if she has any friends looking for guys with small dicks and big guns.”

Yaro got up and moved to the bar, where there was a black hooker he’d had some fun with a few times before.

“What an asshole,” said Hunza, finishing his drink and slamming his glass down on the table.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Petr. “You’re just pissed about him getting the drop on you. You never did tell us how he did it.”

“Fucking prick. We ought to whack him tonight.”

“Come on, Hunza, tell us what happened.”

“Shut the fuck up, Petr.”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” said Pavel. “He’s coming back.”

Yaro was weaving through the tables, dragging the hooker by the hand.

“Hele! This is Miss Carlotta Jones. These are the three biggest studs in Europe.”

“Hi, boys,” said Carlotta. “You want to have some fun tonight?”

“Yeah,” said Pavel, “you got a couple of friends?”

“I have a lot of friends. You got a place to party?”

Pavel took a card from the Hilton out of his pocket and wrote something on it, handed to her.

“Show up here at about one. And don’t turn any tricks before you see us.”

“Well, then, the clock starts running now.” She looked at the card. “Airport. You want to fly. Five hundred for the trio, plus taxi fare. We’ll stay for breakfast.”

“Fine. But you can buy your own fucking breakfast.”

She looked at Yaro. “They’re not as nice as you, Yaro.”

“Nobody is as nice as me,” said Yaro, “but you’ll like them. They hold the European Union speed record for sex.”

“Alright. Buy me a drink, Yaro?”

“Sure,” said Yaro. “I’ll see you guys in a few minutes.” He led Carlotta back to the bar, rubbing her butt as they walked.

“Fucking American,” mumbled Hunza as they walked away, coming up with the worst insult he could think of.

“Relax,” said Pavel. “You’ll get a piece of ass tonight.”

“I’d rather kill Yaro,” said Hunza.

 

 

 

Serena was doing the last tune in the second set, the final chorus of one of Tony’s originals, Tryin’ to Cry. He’d told her she could get creative, experiment a little, so she was using some alternate harmonies, letting Julius carry the tune as it was written.

“Tryin’ to cry, but not makin’ it.

“Tryin’ to cry, but just fakin’ it.”

She was having trouble concentrating completely, had been all evening, ever since she noticed the black woman looking at her, first from over at the bar, then finally sitting at one of the back tables, all alone.

“Hearts never lie, when they’re breaking

“In two.”

There was something odd about her expression, not like an ordinary fan. She was into the music, that was clear, but there was something else, a kind of intensity that made Serena a little nervous.

“Somethin’ too deep for just sadness.

“Somethin’ that borders on madness.”

She’d thought at first the woman was a hooker, the flashy dress, the makeup, the kind of tired, bored manner, that looked to be habitual, but she’d turned away several guys, some with suits and expensive looking rings on their fingers. Serena had seen her over at the bar with Yaro when she came out of the dressing room for the start of the set, thought maybe they had something going, but then Yaro had left her to sit with his foreign looking friends, the ones she’d seen the night she auditioned.

“But somethin’ that still makes me glad

“I’m alive.” 

She never seemed to look at anybody else in the band, only Serena. Maybe she was a lesbian, that could be it. Somehow Serena was sure it wasn’t.

 “And when I say to you

“That I still pay for you”

She tried to keep her mind on the changes, the new thing she’d come up with, keep from slipping back into Tony’s original, simpler progression.

“My heart is happy

“For what we have known.”

She was sure, somehow, that she’d seen her before, or someone who looked a lot like her, maybe in the audience, but somewhere else, too. She’d ask Tony about it, or maybe Terrence, the drummer. He’d been in the band the longest, the only one left of Tony’s original group.

“When I recall your kiss

“I’ll just go on like this.”

She was hitting the end now, her professional instincts taking over, the ones she seemed to have been born with, her head going back, singing to the spotlights.

“I’ll just keep on

“Tryin’ .... to .... cry.”

Tony announced a break and left the stage quickly to talk to Andrey about something. Serena went to the bathroom and then found Terrence backstage, smoking a cigarette by himself. 

“Baby, you are in fine form tonight,” he said, patting the seat beside him.

“Thanks,” she said, sitting down. “Listen, Terrence, did you notice the woman at one of the back tables, all by herself? I think she’s been in here before.”

“You mean Carly? Yeah, she’s in here most every night.” He looked down at his cigarette and shook his head. “She’s a sad story, Serena, a real shame. I guess nobody’s told you about her.”

“No. What about her? I keep thinking I’ve seen her before.”

“You have. Every time you put on your makeup.” He got up and walked a few feet over to the makeup table. There was a picture hanging over the lights. He pointed to it, a group shot of the original band, taken years ago. “There she is. Standing right next to your dad.”

It was the same woman, but looking years younger, and centuries happier.

“Carlotta Jones. She was our original vocalist. The only one we’ve had until you. Had a voice like a nightingale.”

Serena stared at the picture for a moment.

“What happened?”

“Got onto heroin. The band wasn’t big then, not much money to go around. Club was just startin’ up. It was hard times. She started hookin’ to support her habit, really got run down, a lot worse than she looks now. Skinny as a peach tree, had all kinda’ problems with VD. Never got Aids, but she was in terrible shape. Ruined her voice. Tony had to let her go.”

“Is that why he’s so down on drugs?”

“Partly. He was sad about it. Real sad.”

“What an awful story.”

“It’s one of the reasons the original group broke up. Losing two of our best members like that.”

“Two?”

“Your dad, honey. Carly and him were close, real close. Got real depressed. He had his accident just a week after she got fired.”

 

 

 

Yaro was watching Arabic movies. He’d been watching them all week, going slowly through the stack of videos on top of the recorder, two or three every night. It was the last thing he had to get ready at his apartment, except for the bomb photos. He’d fast forward until he came to a scene of two men talking, find a spot in the conversation where they both said something short to each other, and start the tape recorder. Then he’d use another tape recorder to transcribe the conversation to one of a series of tapes, labeled with dates of the coming next two weeks. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what they were saying, but he knew what kind of rhythm he wanted, and the tone of voice.

He’d gotten back late that night, and it was heading on to dawn before he finally finished and shoved one of the tapes into a third recorder connected to the telephone. He’d gotten several different voices, putting them in at random, but one in particular, some Arab star that did a lot of action movies, with a heavy, excitable way of speaking. Those tapes he labeled with a red pen. He listened to one of them, memorizing the intervals, making notes to help out. Then he put a time, eight forty-five, under the date, today’s, and looked at the clock. It was four-thirty. He had time to get some sleep, maybe. He set the alarm for eight-thirty and went into the bedroom.

The place was just about ready. His bedroom still had his clothes in the closet, a couple of personal items lying around, but he had a lockable trunk ready to stash that stuff when the time came. Otherwise it looked pretty good. There was a brass tray set up with little Oriental coffee cups, a few Arabic magazines strewn around, a hookah, even a prayer rug over by the window. He lay down on the bed, under the big picture of Osama Ben Lauden.