He arranged some sheets on the music stand and peered at them. "I got this piano out of the old Graystone Ballroom, many, many years ago and I spent a lot of money getting it restored. It's a great piano, a Bechstein. It was just thrown into a bas.e.m.e.nt corner, a waste. This was before the Graystone's reincarnation as a rock palace in the sixties, so I figured the piano must have been left over from the heyday of the big bands. I like to think that it may have been played by Fletcher Henderson, or the Duke, maybe 'Fatha' Hines, or even G.o.d Himself-Art Tatum. Ahh, here it is."

I was sprawled on the rail seat, smoking and enjoying the first really warm evening of the year. The piano under Books's fingers suddenly blossomed into sound that filled the air. It was almost miraculous, like watching a bud unfurl into an apple blossom, rich in not only color and texture but aroma. The tune was simple, a plaintive blues, but Books had a remarkably soft touch, seeming to prod the keys gently, barely moving his fingers. It raised the hair on the back of my neck. For a moment I had the peculiar impression that the piano was alive, filled to the bursting with music, and when Books pressed gently it released these sounds into the air.

I told him at the end, when his long, thoughtful exploration of an idea had evaporated on the evening air, that I was amazed by his ability. I could tell he was pleased, but he was also genuinely rueful.

"I wanted to be a player," he said with a sigh, "but I just didn't have what it takes."

"Oh, you're wrong," I insisted.

"No, no . . . I know what it takes. For one thing"-he held up one slender hand-"the Lord didn't give me the hands. Too small. A feller can learn to play within these limitations, in jazz anyway, but it's a limitation. I'm sure I could have made a living in the clubs, maybe even cut a few records, but I could never be first-rate with this span."

"You're too hard on yourself," I said.

"Maybe. I envy the people who aren't. Like Grootka. He never worried about being first- or second-rate. I talked to him about it. 'That kind of thinking is bulls.h.i.t,' he'd say. And he was right. It is bulls.h.i.t. It's giving in to vanity and ambition, social pressure, other people's opinions. I know it, but I can't help it. I never pursued the piano, except for my own uses. I can't help admiring those who push ahead with their own agenda-they get things done. Even if you're somebody like Grootka, who couldn't play a horn for s.h.i.t. But he didn't care-if he was even aware. He enjoyed it, so he went at it, full speed and d.a.m.n the rocks."

"Though, sometimes, the consequences are terrible and someone else has to clean up the mess," I observed. Books nodded agreement.

"I got something for you," Books said and disappeared into the interior of the house, returning shortly with a neatly wrapped parcel, about the size of a book. "Open it when you get home," he said. "And here's a little tape to listen to. It's Kinanda, from a jazz festival that a friend of mine taped off a broadcast in San Francisco. I think you'll like it. He calls it 'A Fine and Dandy Lion,' after the old tune, which a lot of jazz musicians have used as a basis for other tunes. The chord progression is conducive to blowing, I guess, but as you'll see, Kinanda doesn't stick to the chords . . . he blows them away."

I really had no idea what he was talking about. He tried to explain what a chord progression was, but it was either too simple or too complex for me. I guess there are people, perhaps most of us, who are introduced to music at home and at school, take a few lessons, learn something about harmony and so on, without ever really penetrating its secrets. Basically we just like music. That is, it's important to us, more or less, but it's not important the way it is for those people who become musicians. We don't breathe music. I nodded and said "Unh-hunh," and promptly forgot what a chord progression was.

I listened to the tape while driving home and it was great. It sounded kind of familiar. It was a blues, all right, and I'd heard it recently . . . and then it hit me: it was the blues that Books had played when I was sitting on his deck. I hadn't recognized it because it was a much more complicated exploration of the basic theme, plus it heavily featured a baritone sax.

This was what was in the package. A notebook, or composition book, as I've already described. I put it here because this was actually book #2, although it was the first one to come to my attention. Like book #1, it was written in blue ink, in a nice hand, and I've edited it for ease of reading, retaining a few of Grootka's usages for effect.

Grootka's Story I walked quite a ways, not really dressed for it, in my street shoes and a suit. The day had warmed up a little by now, but it was pretty breezy and anyway, I never was a guy for shorts and sport shirt, and I didn't bring none with me. So maybe I looked a little funny to the farm lady when I knocked on the door.

[I could imagine. Say you're an Amish farm wife, probably cooking pies or something in your kitchen, wearing an ap.r.o.n over your floral housedress, with the characteristic babushka, or scarf, on your head, and suddenly you hear this pounding on the front door. It's out in the country. Usually, people drive up into the barnyard, or whatever, and honk their horns or get out and halloo and you go out to greet them. You don't expect someone to come walking up to the front porch and pound on the door, certainly not a big, mean-looking Detroit police detective. No wonder she wouldn't come out. Grootka says she peered through the muslin curtains (I a.s.sume they were muslin-isn't that the see-through stuff that your mother hung on frames to dry?) and talked to him through the door. I don't know the life of these people-I get the impression that they're very chary of strangers, especially the womenfolk.-M.]

She won't let me use the f--g [The dashes are G.'s curiously delicate usage. Sparing my sensitive eyes, I suppose, but you will notice later that when he's excited he forgets the f--ing dashes.-M.] phone, to call Books, and by now it's pushing noon. I don't want to walk all the way back to the f--ing resort, but it looks like I got to. She did let me get a drink of water from the well, which they got a little hand pump out by the side yard and you can sit down on a bench under a big maple or oak tree, I don't know which it was. I was sitting there when I seen a big car pull up at the gate to the resort.

This gate is just beyond the farmer's driveway and it's the way a lot of the resort people go in and out to avoid the p.r.i.c.k on the front gate. But the farmer insists that they gotta keep the gate closed, to keep his cows out of there. It's a barbed-wire deal, a kind of loose fence that goes across the road and the pole fits into a hoop at the base of the regular fence and another hoop slips over the top of the pole-you got to pull the gate kind of tight to do it-and it works fine, except that once in a while some jerk don't bother to reclose it after he drives through, so then the cows wander in and the kids have to go round them up.

Anyways, the guy who gets out to open the gate is a white guy, wearing a golf shirt and fancy slacks, big black shades. I knew him right away and I wondered if he made me, but he didn't seem to even see me. A course, I was sitting under the tree, in the shade, and I suppose he didn't expect to see n.o.body there anyway. It was Cooze, a boy from Buffalo that Carmine liked to use from time to time when he had a problem, a real a.s.shole and a guy who I always thought oughta give thanks every morning if he wakes up 'cause n.o.body blew his f--ing head off yet. Cusumano is his real name-Valentino, G.o.d help us, which is why he goes by Cooze. So I know that Carmine must be in the car, and maybe the Fat Man too, since I can tell from the way Cooze is acting-not being a smart-a.s.s, just taking care of the gate like a normal guy would do-that he's not on his own. But naturally, the windows of the Caddy are tinted so the peasants can't ogle His Holy Eminence when he's out riding around. Cooze hops back in the car and off they go, not bothering to rehook the gate, naturally.

Now where could these high and mighty Crime Lords be going? There must be something d.a.m.n important in n.i.g.g.e.r Heaven to bring them all the way up here. I thought it over and it seemed to me that it had to be Lonzo. He was the only one of these guys who was connected at all. I mean, there was probably twenty tinhorn drug peddlers and thieves down there, but none of them was likely to attract the exalted attention of the big bosses, actually bring them driving up to a Negro resort. Not even Lonzo, really, so he must be onto something f--ing huge, and since they were shrewd enough to use the back gate either somebody was showing them the way or they knew the place.

So I had to get my a.s.s back down to Lonzo's, which was about a mile away on a bad road. I seen a old Schwinn bike leaning against a barnyard fence. It was one of them fat-tired kinds, with a lot of chrome and handlebar ta.s.sels-some kid's dream. I figured one a the Hamish kids had earned this bike the hard way, bucking hay and shoveling cow s.h.i.t. I ran to the house and pounded on the door, but of course the old lady ain't coming out for me. So I yelled that I was a cop and I had to borrow the bike, but here was a fifty-dollar deposit, which I would bring the f--ing thing back, don't worry. And I stuffed a fifty in the doorjamb and I jumped on the bike and went pumping away.

This was not the road to h.e.l.l. They didn't have no intentions, good or otherwise, of paving it and even with fat tires it wasn't so easy to get going in the sand, especially since them old Schwinns didn't have no fancy gears. It was just stand up and crank that mule. But it was better than walking by G.o.d and I got down to Lonzo's in about ten minutes and sure enough, there's Carmine's Caddy sitting in the driveway. I hauled the bike into some bushes down the road and decided to hunker in myself, to wait and see what might be going down. What the h.e.l.l was I gonna do anyway, bust in wavin' the Old Cat [Grootka's nickname for his revolver, an enormous old .45 caliber Smith & Wesson.-M.] and arrest everybody? For what? And anyways, I'm outta my precink.

I don't know if you ever sat in the bushes in the summer, Mul. It's innarestin'. I don't know if I ever did, but it seemed to bring back something. These were pretty thick bushes out back of the house with just a weedy field beyond and then some woods, honeysuckle bushes, I guess, and a few little poplar or willow saplings, but I don't know bushes much. There was a lot to see, though, if you're just taking a squat in the bushes on a summer day with nothing to do but observe nature-ants taking a regular road they got, but very busy, hauling pieces of trash like a bit of seed or a part of a dead beetle. A spider is hanging in a web. A robin flies in once in a while. It was pleasant and cool, the leaves rattling in the wind. I was comfortable, leaning back against a sapling, the sun kind of flickering green and gold, and there was that musty old cool dirt smell. So I kind of drowsed, sitting there waiting, about a hundred feet up behind the house. There were only a couple houses on this ridge, so far, none of them close and there wasn't n.o.body about.

But I woke up when Vera comes out. Vera is Tyrone's wife. She was the broad I seen earlier, which I thought it was a wh.o.r.e of Lonzo's, not that Lonzo actually runs wh.o.r.es, he's not a pimp by trade, but he's into just about anything and so I figured this blonde with the big b.o.o.bs must be one of his wh.o.r.es. But she looked familiar, like I said, and now it hit me-this is Vera Addison. I met her before a couple of times. She seemed like a nice enough babe. I didn't pay her any mind after I got through scoping that frame, like any guy would. She's one of these gals that loves to show it-low-cut dresses, miniskirts, real high heels, and, of course, hair blonder than what's-her-name, the Swedish bombsh.e.l.l. You run into babes like this in jazz circles, groupies. They're into black stuff, it turns 'em on, I guess. Usually they're low-life babes, attracted by the myth of the big black c.o.c.k, I guess. But not always. I had a vague notion that maybe Vera was different, I guess because Tyrone was different. Tyrone wasn't a n.i.g.g.e.r.

I should take a minute to get this straight. There's n.i.g.g.e.rs and there's n.i.g.g.e.rs. Some of them are white and some are black. You heard me talk about this, Mul. To me a n.i.g.g.e.r is any f--ing lowlife regardless of race, color, or creed. A loser, a shiftless, no-account kind of guy. They make a mess ever' where they go, they take more than they could ever give if it even occurred to them to give. You know what I'm getting at. There's an awful lot of n.i.g.g.e.rs in this world. They're a f--ing drain. But the average person, white or black, ain't a n.i.g.g.e.r. The average person has got more sense than to s.h.i.t in his own nest. Okay. Enough of that.

Vera comes out in the back. She's wearing a lot of clothes for Vera, a blouse and jeans, a big straw hat and wraparound shades. But she's carrying a blanket and a straw bag and she walks back by the bushes where I'm hanging out. There's a little ditch or something behind the bushes and she jumps across. Back there is a nice little private s.p.a.ce, shielded from view from the road by the bushes and the willows, and there aren't any close neighbors anyways. She spreads out her blanket and starts taking stuff outta the bag-a book, some lotion, a towel, a little radio. She turns on the radio and it's tuned to some jazz station. It ain't much of a day for sunbathing, being kind of cool and the sun going in and out of the clouds, but by G.o.d she starts taking off her clothes and, believe me, it's a real production number. You'd think she was in a skin flick. She's moving kind of easy, swaying her hips to the music, slowly rotating like she's on a stage, each b.u.t.ton of the shirt and the jeans is a number in itself. It turns out she's got a bikini on under the jeans and shirt but that don't stay on for long and it seems like she's already got a pretty complete tan. I mean this babe is an eyeful. The breeze is raising a lot of gooseb.u.mps and her nipples are tighter than an Eskimo's a.s.shole, but she sure is enjoying herself. And I'd be happy to spend an afternoon filling my eyes, but I know that a pretty girl can maybe find a place where no one is looking if she's alone on a desert island. I figure I got maybe a minute before someone starts looking. Someone from the house for sure, and maybe from somewhere else, a airplane or a balloon. Somebody will spot this gorgeous babe lying out here, getting a little sun, especially now that she has taken off the bikini. Mul, this broad has t.i.ts like what's-her-name, the Swedish actress I mentioned before. You wouldn't think t.i.ts that big could stick straight out like that, sort of like the nose cones on a 747. And I might as well tell you right now-Vera is not a natural blonde. Anita Ekberg. That's who I was thinking of. [Grootka actually spells it "Needa Heckburger."-M.]

But as much as I enjoy the view, it also means that someone is likely to spot yours truly, lurking in the f--ing bushes like a G.o.dd.a.m.n Peeping Tom. So I figure I better make the most of it. I creep over to the nearest point to Vera and I whisper, "Hey! Vera!"

Jesus, you should of seen her! If she'd been wearing underpants she'd of spoiled 'em for sure. [Grootka has scribbled a little note here, in the margin: "I don't mean that she actually peed, or nothin', this is just a figger a speech."-M.] She flops on her belly and s.n.a.t.c.hes a towel, but finally, when she's covered up, more or less, she says as angry as a bunch of ants whose hill you been p.i.s.sing on, "Who is that?" Or words not exactly like that, but the same idea.

I kind of stick my head out a little bit and grin. "It's me, Grootka. How ya doin'?" For some reason this don't calm her down. I finally hadda pull the Old Cat on her. That chilled her.

"Whatta you want?" she says, her eyes as round as silver dollars. But give the woman credit, she is whispering outta the corner of her yap and not letting on that she's talking to me.

"Who's inna f--ing house?" I ask.

She looks puzzled for a minute, then it clicks and she says, "You're Grootka! Oh my G.o.d! Oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d!"

I had to shake the Old Cat at her to get her attention. "Who's in there? What the h.e.l.l's goin' on"

At first she claims there's n.o.body there, just her and Tyrone, but after a second or two she says "some friends."

"What friends? Tyrone is friends with Carmine? You're kidding."

Just about this time I get this feeling that she's not as spooked as she seems. I mean, sure she's spooked, but now there's something cool in her face. And I notice she ain't exactly clutching the towel like it was the only thing between her and the preacher man. One big fat t.i.t is peeping out, her a.s.s is definitely feeling the breeze, and she keeps stealing a look at the house. And finally it dawns on me-the chick is putting on a show. But for who? Not me, she didn't know I was here. Must be for the house.

I take a quick look at the house, what I can see of it from this deep in the bushes, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I don't see a shadow or something, like somebody sneaking around the corner. It's a real quick glance, believe me. Who ever it was has disappeared. But he looks kind of short and stocky.

"Grootka, you idiot," she whispers outta the corner of her mouth, "get the h.e.l.l out of here! You're s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up everything." But all the same, she starts doing some exercises. Touching her toes, twists. Man, forget the f--ing towel, it's a show! And I just sit back to enjoy it.

But too d.a.m.n quick the back door opens and Tyrone sticks his head out and yells, "Hey, Vera! Come on! The guys are leaving!"

Vera real quick yanks on her bikini and her jeans and blouse, ignoring me now. Without looking up she says, again, real low, "Get the h.e.l.l out of here. Somebody's gonna get hurt."

I tell her, "Won't be me, babe. n.o.body knows I'm here. Except you." I emphasize that last point and she nods to show she gets it.

She sashays on back to the house and I hear people talking out front in that familiar way, saying good-bye, that kind of thing. By now I've worked my way back toward the front of the bushes but the best I can make out is the Fat Man and Cooze, bringing up the rear as they go down the drive and get in the Caddy. From the little I could hear, which wasn't nothing, it must of been Carmine and at least a driver-probably Carlo what's-his-name, plus the two I mentioned. And Lonzo and Tyrone. Where Lonzo's boys went, I dunno. Probably to the casino. I see Lonzo's Caddy is not there.

After all the usual so longs and see yas, Carmine's Caddy drives off and Lonzo and Tyrone walk back to the house. Well, I sit back, chewing all this over. I don't know what the h.e.l.l it means. And I'm just about ready to get the h.e.l.l out of there, like Vera said-which I gotta admit has got me puzzled now-when I see that f.u.c.king Cooze slippin' back down the hill. On foot!

Let me tell ya, it's one thing when you see Grootka out flappin' the soles, but at least I got a history of walkin' the beat, anyways. You see a sharp Dago like Cooze tiptoein' through the pasture on his Florsheims and you're lookin' at somethin' that's no good. The chick was right. Somebody was gonna get hurt.

Cooze gets within about twenty feet a the back door and he has to jump for a tree trunk 'cause Tyrone sticks his head out the door and he whistles. Naturally, being Tyrone, he don't just give your standard wolf whistle. This is about a G-major/B-flat/D whistle, sort of a blues. Followed by "Yo! Janney," or something like that. That's what it sounded like. Janney. But it could be Jamie, or Jimmy.

He does this a couple times, looking all around the backyard. f.u.c.king Cooze is trying to squeeze his skinny frame into the trunk of a elm. But I notice he's got his arm hanging straight down and at the end of it is a fairly large piece, like maybe a Python [a Colt revolver, usually .357 caliber-M.].

Pretty quick a short, stocky white guy sticks his head out of the bushes on the other side of the house. He's kind of tentative. "They all gone?" he kind of whispers.

Tyrone comes all the way out on the back steps and he gestures with that big hand of his. "Sure," he says, "come on back in."

And at that, out jumps old Cooze and waves the cannon. "Okay, Pops," he says, "let's go for a ride."

But Pops don't want to go ridin' with Cooze, it seems. He was only a step or two outta the bushes and now he turns and bolts, like a rabbit, diving for the briar patch. And Cooze, he don't hesitate. He hoists the cannon and takes one shot. Boom!

Actually, the trees and bushes must have m.u.f.fled the shot pretty good. It was more a flat, cracking sound, like breaking a big limb. It looked to me like the bullet must of hit Pops in the back of the head. Anyway, there wasn't much doubt he was dead, cause he just pitched forward into the gra.s.s.

And then, of course, I took out Cooze.

Now, Mul, I can just hear you saying, "You what?"

Yeah, I took him out. I had to. It was reflex, almost. I had the Old Cat out and I just gunned the f.u.c.ker down. Yeah. You can't stand by and watch a clown like Cooze blowin' folks'es heads off and not do something. I hit him in the middle of the upper back. A very good place. I figure it blew his cold f.u.c.kin' heart right out of him. And afterwards, in case anybody axed, I said, loud enough to hear, "Halt, or I'll fire."

You wanta read more? I got more. A lot more. What you need, Mul, is a good read. Kick back and smoke one a them Havanas yer always talking about. Put a nice berg in yer black Jack and marvel at the story he'll give you.

7.

Grave Groove It wasn't too hard, when I put my mind to it, to figure out what Grootka's cryptic little message at the end of book #2 meant. It was the combination of Havana and berg. I used to get my cigars from a man named Marvin Berg who ran a store over on Fort Street, downtown. He was a big, fat man who was a little creepy in ways, but basically a gentle soul. Alas, he had long since pa.s.sed on and the store was no longer in business. But I remembered that his last amour-if that's what she really was (it was hard to imagine Marvin Berg actually engaging in amorous activities)-was a strange little creature named Becky, who had a fast mouth. She didn't seem to care what she said, or to whom, but Marvin was clearly delighted by that. I enjoyed her lip, as well, for all it's apparent sourness. I wondered if she was still around and if she knew anything about this notebook of Grootka's.

The problem was, I didn't even know Becky's last name. And now that Marvin was long gone, how would I find her? Well, being a wise old detective I looked up Berg in the phone book, thinking that I might get a lead, anyway, though I hardly knew what it could be. But there was a Marvin Berg, in Pleasant Ridge. This is an odd little suburb, out by the zoo, no more than a hundred acres, or so it seems. I called the number. A woman answered who I thought might be Becky. When I asked if she was, she snapped back, "Who the h.e.l.l is this?" When I identified myself, there was a snort of disbelief and then a truly Beckyesque comment: "I'd have thought you'd disappeared up your own a.s.shole by now."

That was our Becky, all right. It was never difficult talking to Becky; the trouble was getting to a conversation about something, rather than mere badinage. But she sounded great. It had been at least five years since I'd talked to her. My last image was of a woman of about thirty, dark hair in bangs, very white skin, and wearing exceedingly red lipstick. It would be interesting to see what she was like post-Marvin. "Drop by, or drop dead," she replied to my suggestion, which appeared to mean that she had no objections, anyway, although she claimed to have no knowledge of any material that Grootka might have left with Marvin.

I took the Chrysler Freeway to the Walter Reuther Freeway and swerved off at Woodward-thinking, as I did, that Detroit would never name a freeway after its most famous labor leader-no, no, there would be no James R. Hoffa Freeway. Marvin's house was quite large, suitable for a family of seven, rather than a diminutive widow. It was an old house, but in excellent condition, set back from the road among some mature maples.

"I like it," I said, and I did. Becky was standing in the yard, dressed in an old University of Michigan sweatshirt and jeans that had dark wet dirt on the knees. "I'm looking for a new place to live, but this looks too big for one person. Maybe I should move in."

"Do I have a choice," she sneered, "or am I Poland welcoming Hitler?"

She looked pretty nice, actually, pale as ever but her eyes were bright and she hadn't neglected her lipstick. Kind of a dashing little figure in rubber boots, amusing and gamine. She said she'd been cleaning up the flower beds. "I get a lot of guys asking to move in," she said. "For some reason they're all old farts, like you. Are you really looking for a place?"

I was a little taken aback by that last, but of course, I was looking for a place. Unfortunately, it wouldn't help my situation to move to Pleasant Ridge: I'd still be "out of town." I explained that and she shrugged, then moved toward the front door. "Too bad. I could use a cop around the house, and we might have had some fun." No smile. For some reason I shivered in the spring sun.

"So what's all this c.r.a.p about Grootka?" she asked when we were seated in the huge living room, with its solid oak wainscotting and cold fireplace. I had refused a drink, but she was sipping a Stroh's from the bottle. "He's still dead, ain't he?" She displayed a comic alarm.

"Oh sure. Not even Grootka can beat the Man with the Axe," I a.s.sured her.

"Man with the Scythe, you mean," she said. "The Man with the Axe is the jack of hearts, I think."

"Or a saxophone player," I said.

"Anyway, it'd be the Devil who took Grootka," she said.

"Do you think so? Hey, listen, did you give any thought to what I asked you about?"

"You mean some notebooks of Grootka's? Well, they might be in a box of stuff that Marvin left for me to return. Toward the end he was kind of getting ready. You didn't come around. . . . Okay, okay!" She held up a hand to stop my protests. "You didn't know 'cause I didn't tell you. He had about five heart attacks in his last couple of years, you know, and after he got over the first two, I quit calling people and rushing around like it was the end of time. And then, naturally, he has the big one. Well, what can you do? C'mon, we'll go downstairs and look."

There was a tremendous bas.e.m.e.nt, all very clean and orderly, complete with a workout room with its de rigueur treadmill and weights, all nicely dusted and polished. Evidently not anything that Marvin had ever used, but judging from Becky's lithe form they were still in use. The boxes were stacked in a little enclosure in a corner, up off the concrete floor, and she uncomplainingly took down one after another and set them out, opening them and casting quickly through the contents.

"Ah, here's something you'd like," she said. She handed me a large wooden casket or box, obviously a cigar humidor. "You can throw this c.r.a.p in the dump if you don't want it," she said. "In fact, I think Marvin said something about getting you to haul it away." It was full of genuine Havana cigars, from the wrapping rooms of H. Upmann. Fifty or more Coronas. I was astounded. I started to protest but a glance from her hushed me.

"I'm not smoking them," she said, "and I sure as h.e.l.l ain't handing them over to Customs. Besides, for all I know, they came in before the embargo. They any good?"

I felt a couple of them, rolling them in my fingers and thumb. They were in excellent condition. "They're wonderful," I said.

"Good. I got about twenty more boxes, never opened. You can haul those off to the dump for me, too."

Fifteen minutes later we came upon a box that contained, among a lot of old cigar catalogs, a familiar-looking notebook. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. It was full of Grootka's writing.

Grootka's Third Notebook [Note: Grootka had written a note congratulating me on finding this notebook, and it was attached inside the cover with a paper clip.-M.]

Actually, Mul, I just put all that s.h.i.t in there about the guy being shot in the head to make me look good. Cooze never got a shot off. The way it went was when I saw Cooze lift his gun I took him out. I had to do it. I didn't know who the guy was. For all I knew, it was Hoffa. But it wasn't. It was some pal of Tyrone's, a Dutchman named Jacobsen. This d.a.m.n guy, Janney, I never liked the sonuvab.i.t.c.h, but Vera, she kinda liked him. He was always hanging around. I seen him in the clubs, once I thought about it. He's one a them jazz buffs. Sorta like you, come to think of it. Except that he's got some money and he don't mind spending it on a guy like Tyrone, which is better than he could probably find to spend it otherwise. [That's what he said.-M]

The thing is, when I popped Cooze I seen Jacobsen jump in the bushes like it was him gettin' shot, and maybe he thought it was! Only when the smoke cleared he noticed he wasn't shot after all, so he come crawlin' out and seen it was Cooze who was dead. Which sets him to rockin' on his knees and sayin' Oh G.o.d, Oh G.o.d, which seems to be a regular thing for folks to say when the s.h.i.t starts flyin', did you ever notice?

So now I got a dead a.s.shole on my hands. No sign of Carmine and Fats, by the way. They musta been around somewhere, but they sure as h.e.l.l ain't stickin' around to trade lead with the Old Cat. I don't know, actually, if they knew it was me, but they knew when Cooze didn't come back from the shootin' that he wasn't comin' back. So they must of split. So now I got a bunch of f--ing loons, black and white, staring at me and sayin' "What we gonna do now?" like I'm their big brother, or something.

I got them to find some tarp, it was that black plastic stuff, VizQueen or whatever they call it, that the contractors use, and wrap ol' Cooze in that. Then we went in the house and everybody had a good, stiff drink.

Now, who all was there? You'll wanta know. It was me, Vera, Tyrone, Jacobsen, Lonzo, and Mr. Jimmy Hoffa, no less. Pretty soon along comes a couple of Lonzo's boys, which I think their names are Krizmo and Baits [Evidently, Charismo Fredericks and Johnee Bates, both of Detroit. Both deceased as of this writing.-M.]

Mr. Jimmy Hoffa was in the bedroom, but he came out when I came in. It seems that Vera's little strip show was meant to entertain the Mobsters while Jimmy hid under the bed. How's that for crazy bulls.h.i.t? And Jacobsen wasn't even supposed to be there, but he'd showed up maybe ten minutes before the Mob, 'cause he'd been looking all over town for Vera and Tyrone, 'cause they'd stood him up for dinner at the Red Fox, which was where they'd run into Hoffa. But I'll get to all that. The important thing was, somehow he got thinking that they might have gone up to n.i.g.g.e.r Heaven (which I'm not gonna even try to apologize for or explain, anymore-that's what everybody called it, even to me).

Okay, so here's the scene. They're all goin' nuts, blaming each other, suspicious of each other-you know, Who let the Mob in on this?-and Hoffa is . . . well, he's kinda cool. Hoffa is thinking. The immediate rush is over, but his little punim is scrunched up in a frown and the Great One is thinking. He's thinking he's gotta get the h.e.l.l outta there. Which I don't blame him, but where's he gonna go?

But, first things first. I gotta get rid of this body. I see it's up to me, mainly 'cause these guys can't wipe their a.s.s with both hands, but also 'cause he's my corpse. I mean, I popped him, so I gotta get rid of him. Well, it's no big deal, but I'm not in any hurry and I figure I oughta get some help. So I get on Lonzo's case.

Lonzo is taking a lotta s.h.i.t at the moment 'cause everybody figures he's the p.r.i.c.k who tipped Carmine that Hoffa is here. Who else would do it, unless it was some neighbor or something, or maybe Vera or Tyrone let it slip when they were out shopping or talking to someone on the phone, or something? But Lonzo is a good suspect, 'cause he's in with the Mob, so even though Tyrone is his dead sister's boy (a point he keeps making) everybody figures he sold Hoffa to the Mob, if only to keep them off his own a.s.s when they find out that Hoffa is his guest.

Jacobsen, to give him credit, don't agree. "I think we owe Lonzo," he says. "It was Lonzo who kept telling Carmine he was sure Jimmy wasn't here. Why would he say that if he brought the killers here?"

"Aw man, that was bulls.h.i.t," Tyrone says. And of course, Vera agrees, very loud.

"He had to say that," she claims, " 'cause he couldn't let on that he was the fink." She's pointing at Lonzo and screaming.

Lonzo is glaring around with those yellow eyes. He looks like he was about to kill him a couple of whiteys and maybe Tyrone, too. Fortunately, I'm there to keep the peace, with the Old Cat.

I can see that all of this is making Hoffa real nervous, but what the h.e.l.l, there ain't no way of settling it real quick and there are more important things to do. "So, Lonzo," I say, "what's the deal? Did you tip Carmine?"

Lonzo reels off a coupla yards a language that woulda had Sister Mary Herman kneeling on his chest crammin' a bar of Fels Naptha down his throat, but all it means is "Nope." So I explain to him, in case he don't get it: "These folks all think you set them up. You got to admit, that's the way it looks. Now you and me know Carmine can't be interested in n.o.body but Mr. Hoffa, here, and I don't even know why he's hot about that, but these folks are in the way and they could get zipped, so you can see why they're hot." (They were listening and had quit yelling, so I just kept on yapping-sorta thinking out loud for their benefit.) "Carmine ain't gonna bring a heavy shooter like Cooze out here just to get some fresh air. He meant to take out Hoffa. Probably he, or somebody, was watching that little shoot-around out there. They seen, or think they seen, Cooze take down a short, white, middle-aged guy and unless they know something we don't expect, they prob'ly think it was Hoffa. I don't know if they seen Janney crawl back outta the bushes, but they sure must of seen me take down Cooze."

They didn't seem to get the point right away, but I'm sure you do, Mul. Like I said, Cooze didn't come back on his own. My guess was that Carmine didn't know that Hoffa wasn't hit. But it was only a guess. And anyway, they hadda know that Cooze was down, whether they knew it was me took him down or not. My second guess, and this was more than a guess, was that they would be back as soon as they picked up some more soldiers. And when they did, you can bet they wasn't going to do nothing less than clean house.

So, should we blow this pop stand? Would you of stayed? Where was there to go?

This is where my man Lonzo comes through. He says, "What if we was able to convince Carmine that Hoffa was dead?"

"Good idea," I say. "Let's shoot the f.u.c.ker our own selfs and throw his a.s.s in the Red Fox parking lot."

Krizmo and Baits start laughing their a.s.ses off, but Hoffa, of course, don't like this kind of talk, even in fun. He gives us a pretty good imitation of Edward G. Robinson, telling us all to shut up and start thinking again.