Standing at the Scratch Line (14 page)

“Tell Vince he was right to check with me,” Jim said. “Direct these men back to my office. I’ll meet them there.”

“Up jumped the devil!” Noble declared with a frown of disgust.

“Well, here’s our first hurdle with the mob,” Jim said with resignation. “You want to come back and help protect your investment?” he asked King.

“The mob you been tellin’ me about?”

“The very same!” Noble answered. “An Italian underground organization that runs the protection rackets and controls all the big gambling money. They make you pay protection money in order to stay in business. Otherwise, they destroy your business. I warned you guys about this. It’s why I didn’t want to come in on this deal. I’m through with fighting. I don’t want to ever pick up a gun again.”

“It shouldn’t get to that. We can afford to pay five percent off the top, but not more,” Jim answered. “I just hope they aren’t greedier than that.”

“Let’s go back and see,” King suggested. There was so much about New York that he didn’t understand. The strangeness and newness of the city with its millions of people sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. But strong-arm techniques were the same the world over. This was something he understood.

“You need me?” Big Ed asked, starting to rise.

“No, sit tight,” King advised. “I’ll be back before the show starts.”

On the way to the office Jim explained his strategy. “This is the price of doing business in New York. I figured they’d come sooner or later. If we can hold them to five percent off the top, we got no problem. Let me do the talking. I’ve met most of these guys before. I had to pay when I ran the Clef Club too.”

“Why pay them at all?” King asked.

“Because it’s cheaper than going to war and I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

“Why not make them look over their shoulders?” King continued.

“I’m not a soldier now and really I never was. I’m a bandleader, a composer, and a musician. I’m not ready to do any more fighting. It’s hard enough trying to arrange tunes and keep the orchestra together. I feel the same way Noble does except that this is part of my dream.” Jim waved his hand around, indicating the club’s red and black decor.

“You can’t let people walk on you, no matter what,” King asserted with a certain grimness.

“Just let me do the talking,” Jim said.

“You got it,” King answered, and followed with an enigmatic smile.

Vince Gilroy was standing by the curtains leading backstage with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was tall, lanky, and dark skinned and had a flattened nose. The scars on his face were proof that he did not always live among the most polite company, but he was the best stage manager north of the Potomac.

“I took Minetti and his boys back to your office,” Vincent said, flicking his ashes in the direction of an ashtray. “They didn’t look happy to me. I think they mean to rough you up. You want me to get some help?”

“He won’t need it,” King answered, another smile on his face.

“Well, he’s got another problem,” Vince retorted, blowing a smoke ring. “Tyrone Thigpin is back there making a scene about how he should be in the house band. And he’s demanding to see ‘that puffed-up Europe.’ ”

“Buy him a drink, Vince, and tell him I’ll talk with him later,” Jim suggested.

“I think he’s had enough fire water for this whole week.”

King followed Jim through the curtains and entered a large hallway. Almost immediately they were accosted by a shouting voice. “So, you finally decided to show up at work! You done graced us with your presence!”

“Quiet! Goddamn it!” Vince hissed. “There’s people with families who need the money they make here! We got a show to put on!”

Tyrone came tipping across the hallway with a sheepish smile and his finger held up to his lips as if he was telling everyone to be quiet. It was obvious from his gait that he had drunk a considerable amount of some alcoholic beverage. Although Jim attempted to brush past him, Tyrone blocked his way.

“I told everybody when you got here, we was gon’ straighten this out ’cause we go back a long ways. We was overseas together. Ain’t that right?” Tyrone tried to put his arm around Jim’s shoulders as if indeed they were friends.

Jim pushed him away. “You’re drunk and I’m busy. Why don’t we talk about this later, just the two of us?” Jim made an effort to pass, but Tyrone blocked his way again.

Tyrone’s expression changed from a smile to a snarl. “Ain’t no reason for you to disrespect me, nigger! Don’t act so high and mighty!”

“You’re drunk, Tyrone. Let’s talk when you’re sober,” Jim advised him, pushing past him even more forcefully.

A troop of six women dancers, dressed in outfits that exposed a lot of midriff and leg, exited the stage into the hallway. They were laughing and talking among themselves on their way to their dressing rooms when Tyrone grabbed Jim by the arm and swung him around roughly.

“I ain’t got no need to meet with you alone! Tell these people I’s your new house drummer! Tell ’em! I wants everybody to know!”

Jim gritted his teeth and muttered. “You don’t work here now and you never will! I’ve tried to be polite, but you’re a fool!”

Tyrone raised his voice. “All this is ’cause you don’t like me, huh?”

Jim swung around and faced his adversary. “You’re right, I don’t like you, but I don’t hire you because you can’t play! You may think your snare drumming makes you a drummer, but to a musician, you’re just a snare drummer in search of a parade! You got no foot and the only framework you can lay down is in four/four time and what you lay down is weak and repetitive! You have the picture now?” Jim turned and walked away.

The women who had been standing around watching the interchange began to ooh and ahh. One said, “That was too crisp!”

“Crisp as toast!” said another, giggling behind her hands. “In search of a parade, Lord help me. Did Europe hit the nail on the head?” she asked, turning to a friend for confirmation.

“To the paradiddle, honey,” the woman said, shaking her head at Tyrone. “To the paradiddle.” It was clear that Tyrone had made no friends in the chorus line.

“The poor boy was so badly burnt,” ventured the woman who had spoken first, “it look like the heat shrunk up his naps!” she said, referring to the sweaty condition of Tyrone’s greasy, unkempt hair. The women all laughed and walked away, looking back at Tyrone as they went.

Tyrone started after the women and there was an angry look on his face. King stepped into his path and said, “No more talkin’. It’s about time for you to leave or make your move.” If it had been his call, he would have ended the Tyrone disturbance within ten seconds of learning of it. Everything that he’d seen of Tyrone was repulsive. Now, it was just him and Tyrone.

Tyrone stared up at King in confusion. Then his face set in an angry frown. He put his hand into the pocket where he kept his switchblade. “What’d you mean, make my move?”

As he edged closer to Tyrone, King whispered, “All you done is talk! It’s time to take it to the mat!” King smiled and felt the ache of anticipation. He wanted Tyrone to pull his knife. “Don’t tell me you’re a chickenshit and a coward,” he goaded, keeping his voice low. King was on his toes, prepared for anything.

“I ain’t got no truck with you,” Tyrone said, pulling his hand out of his pocket and putting it behind his back.

King had seen the hidden knife gambit many times. “Have you got the blade opened yet?” King asked. He was now within striking distance. “This is yo’ last chance to go out that door walkin’!”

The look in King’s eyes and the tone in his voice made Tyrone drop his knife and kick it away. “I ain’t fightin’. I jus’ gon’ walk out of here.” He stepped back. He began to tremble. There was something about King’s quiet ferocity that struck fear into him and made him think that perhaps the rumors were true.

King exposed his bowie, which he had palmed and kept concealed in the sleeve of his jacket, then shoved it back into its waist sheath. “Get out!” he ordered.

Tyrone did not even bother to pick up his knife. He was sick realizing how close he had come to being killed. He walked out into the street without a backward glance.

King was mildly disappointed. He sorely missed the excitement of conflict. He exhaled slowly. There had been a certain monotony to the passing days that had certainly not existed during the war. The rules of war had been rescinded; they had been folded and put away with the uniforms. He was now supposed to lay down his weapons and set aside his taste for excitement.

King walked over to the door of Jim’s office and tried to calm himself. He took a couple of deep breaths and walked in the door without knocking.

Immediately, a smallish, swarthy white man tried to push him roughly out the door. “We got enough niggers in here.”

Reacting without thinking, King knocked the man’s hands aside and grabbed his throat, squeezing with intent to cripple or kill. It was only the movement of a large white man that saved the little man’s life. King did not have time to fully crush his windpipe before he turned to deal with another adversary. He threw the little man backward onto the floor, where he lay choking, gasping, and struggling for air. King saw the big man go for his gun and opened his jacket, exposing his own pistols. “Go ahead,” he taunted as he kept walking toward the big man.

While King closed the space between them, the big man hesitated. When he drew back to punch the approaching King, it was too late. King flung himself on the man, snapping his head forward at the last minute and head-butting the man over his nose and mouth. The man stumbled backward from the force of the attack. King pursued, striking swiftly with the heel of his palm at the base of the man’s nose. He missed the killing blow, but had nonetheless knocked his opponent headlong into the desk. The man’s head cracked against the solid mahogany and he lay silent on the floor.

The exhilaration King felt from this brief physical exertion made him throw back his head and laugh. It was the terrible laugh of a spirit freed by violence. He felt truly alive. It was almost like patrol. He pulled out a pistol and screwed a silencer onto the barrel, glanced over at Jim Europe, who looked as if he had been roughed up a bit, and said with a smile, “Let’s hear about the deal these fine gentlemen is offering.”

There was a tough-looking white man with greased-back hair and bushy eyebrows sitting behind Jim’s desk. He wore an expensive, dark, pinstriped double-breasted suit and had his two-toned shoes up on the desk. He had watched King’s entrance and subsequent destruction of his men in silence. Slowly he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and offered the pack to King.

“No, thanks,” King said with a friendly smile. He went over and examined the little man who appeared to be breathing almost regularly. He lifted his foot and stomped down hard on the man’s head. “I ain’t never liked the word
nigger,
” King explained to the man in the pinstriped suit. “But I do likes a cigar.” He walked over and studied the big man’s prone figure and determined that he was unconscious. King took out a cellophane-wrapped cigar from his jacket. He went and sat on the desk next to where the white man had put his feet.

“You want a job?” the man asked.

King laughed. “I couldn’t work for you.”

“Why not? Ask anybody. I pay well.”

“The money ain’ the problem,” King answered with a chuckle. “I just don’t think you want to call me what I want to be called.”

With a casual movement, the man flicked his ashes on the floor. “And what might that be?”

“I want to be called Mister, like Mr. Tremain. Ain’t that big a request, really. Anyways, I got me a job. I’m part owner of this establishment. And I can tell by your two friends that we might not get along real good. Now, how about tellin’ me about yo’ offer?” King put the pistol down on the desk.

“You must be a new nigger in town and don’t know who I am and who I represent.”

King took a wooden match out of his coat and quickly scratched it against the man’s cheek. The match flared into flame. “Who is you and who you represent?” he asked.

The man touched his cheek and anger briefly flared in his eyes. Then he too smiled. His eyes wandered to the desk where King had laid the pistol.

“Go ahead and reach for it,” King urged as he puffed on the cigar.

The man turned to Jim, who had been standing against the wall. “Is this the partner who you said wouldn’t go for more than five percent off the top?”

“He’s one of them,” Jim said, trying to straighten his torn shirt. His lip was also bleeding.

“I accept. The Minetti Family will accept five percent for six months. I have the authority to make this deal. I am Tino Minetti. But understand me, you’re niggers and that’s what I’ll call you! I’ll take the first payment now, niggers!” Minetti stood up.

King hit him before he was fully erect. “I did tell you I didn’t like the word
nigger.
I ain’t ever been a nigger and I ain’t ever gon’ be what a white man calls me, unless it’s Mister!”

“What are you doing?” shouted Jim. “He was going to accept our deal. Are you crazy?”

King came over and grabbed Jim by the collar. “Are
you
crazy? You think they gon’ let you be an exception. You better take a look around at yo’ world. These boys would be the first to come back and blow yo’ ass away.” He let go of Jim. “They keep their power by intimidatin’ and killin’. If I can find out somethin’ about who sent ’em and their operation, it’s possible we might be able to shake ’em up and make ’em forget all about us.”

“What’s going to happen to these men?”

“They ain’t ever goin’ home, but you don’t worry about that. Just go get Big Ed and have him bring the truck around to the back. Get on with the show.”

“This is what I wanted to avoid,” Jim said, shaking his head.

“Noble was right,” King said. “It’s like death and taxes. Can’t really get away from the rough stuff, if you open a business like this.” He watched Jim leave the office without speaking. When the door closed, King smiled broadly. He hadn’t planned on staying in the city long, but perhaps he would like New York after all. King picked up a pad and began writing down the names of the men he wanted to contact, as well as his potential facility and transportation needs. He would be able to put his military training to use and he had a pool of trained men to choose from. This was something he understood. This was war.