Jack of Diamonds (83 page)

I closed my eyes for a moment, and suddenly saw that hammer swinging down again and the madness and delight in Sammy’s single exposed eye.

‘What do you mean by “much of the use”?’ It was a desperate question.

‘Depends on what we find when we get inside for a second look. I think we can get you back to normal strength but the articulation of your fingers will not be the same as before. I’m not sure about the degree of feeling either. In your profession, I imagine, touch is essential. Also, I’m afraid arthritis later on is almost inevitable.’

‘So, no piano?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Well, Jack, it’s a question of how well you formerly played. If you give us the opportunity and you do the post-operative exercises, I’m sure we can effect a reasonable outcome, but I very much doubt you’ll be able to play at the level you once did.’

‘I think I’d like to be left alone for a bit now, thanks, Doctor.’ I could no longer contain my emotion and quickly turned away from them, gulping back my sobs while Dr Light replaced my dressings and bandages. The words Joe had once spoken to me floated back into my mind. I’d been suffering from a dose of flu and was unable to compete in a piano competition I was fairly confident I could win, and was whingeing about how unfair everything was. Joe said, ‘Jazzboy, life got a way of cheatin’ on everbody. Sometime we jes got to harden up some.’ I was still a long way from ‘hardening up some’ and continued to weep pathetically.

‘Get in touch with me if you decide to come east, Jack. To the Albany General Hospital,’ I heard the visiting surgeon say in a quietly sympathetic voice. With my face turned away, I was unable to respond or even to thank him, except to nod my head.

Some days later, the police arrived. My heart sank when they introduced themselves – they were the same two detectives who had been at Hector’s bedside taking evidence. Or, to put it more accurately, taking a statement that allowed them to sign off on the case. Chef Napoleon Nelson had told me their names: Detective Myles Stone and Detective Hank Gillespie. How could you possibly forget a name like Myles Stone? Sometimes you have to wonder what the heck parents are thinking when they name their children.

Messrs Stone and Gillespie got straight to business after a perfunctory introduction that included a display of their badges.

‘We have seen the hospital report, Mr Spayd. Your injury appears to be a result of an accident or assault in the early hours of December the 30th when you were on your way home. Do you recall what happened?’ Stone asked.

I’d given a good deal of thought to what I was prepared to say and decided that there was no way I could tell the police what happened without implicating Lenny. From Chef Napoleon Nelson’s description, I knew enough about these two not to run off at the mouth. ‘What sort of protection would I get as a witness?’ I asked.

‘Oh, are you telling us it wasn’t an accident, sir?’ Stone asked.

‘I’m not saying anything more until you answer my question, officer.’

The second cop, Gillespie, then said, ‘Well, if the sheriff authorises it, we could provide police protection leading up to and during any subsequent trial, sir.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Ah . . . well, I guess that would be dependent on the circumstances, sir,’ Stone replied.

I knew what that meant. I would be on my own if I gave evidence against Sammy. It would be a miracle if I lasted long enough to see any trial.

Then Gillespie asked, ‘In your case, are there any other witnesses, sir?’

‘No.’

‘No witnesses at all?’ Gillespie repeated, his tone a clear warning.

‘No.’

‘Did you have any previous cause to suspect this person’s motives?’ Gillespie asked. They’d obviously done their homework and had quite clearly received a detailed briefing. I warned myself to be very careful with my reply.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you saying he had previously caused you trouble or harmed you
personally
?’ This time it was Stone. They were a well-trained duo.

‘No. He threatened, but never actually harmed, me.’

They looked at each other. ‘And you didn’t actually see your attacker?’ Stone said with emphasis.

‘Better find yourself a very good lawyer and have a long talk with him before you start accusing anyone, sir,’ Gillespie warned.

I sighed. ‘I think I’m getting the message.’ There was no point in telling them about Sammy’s pink Cadillac; it hadn’t been reported missing and with the night staff paid off, they could prove Sammy was in hospital at the time.

Both tried to remain looking deadpan but I could see they were relieved. ‘Sir, we have the hospital report and we know you lost your wallet.’

‘And a gold Rolex watch,’ I added.

Both wrote this down. Then Stone said, ‘It doesn’t explain your hand. The felon wouldn’t damage your hand to remove a watch. By the way, was there an inscription on the watch? If we apprehend someone in the future, it may prove useful,’ he explained.

‘Yes.’

They waited, notepads poised. I realised I’d made a mistake mentioning the watch. Damn, damn, damn! Now I was going to have to involve Bridgett.

‘Yes, it simply said:
Jack Spayd, the piano man. Thanks, Bridgett.
’

‘Is that Mrs Bridgett Fuller from the Firebird?’ Gillespie asked.

‘She was my boss and she gave it to me as a thank-you for five years of playing piano in her casinos.’

‘Expensive gift, ain’t it?’ Stone remarked.

‘Well, perhaps. What are you trying to say, officer?’

‘You and Mrs Fuller, you weren’t . . . ?’

The implication was obvious. ‘I take exception to that, officer,’ I said in a cool voice, so they couldn’t accuse me of being angry. ‘The inscription is semi-official; she refers to me by my full name Jack S-P-A-Y-D,’ I spelled it out, ‘then simply thanks me, as any professional manager might do. Anyhow, a gold watch is not an unusual retirement gift.’

They duly wrote down the inscription and I felt I’d scored a rare point. ‘Will you read it back to me, please?’ I asked. They did so and it was correct. ‘Thank you,’ I said coolly.

‘Mr Spayd, please,’ Detective Stone said in what I think was intended as a conciliatory tone, ‘You must understand we’re trying to get to the bottom of what happened. Right now we can only surmise that you were attacked with a blunt instrument by a person or persons unknown, rendered unconscious and robbed. Your wallet and, we now know, your watch were taken. Maybe you were lying on the road and they drove over your left hand in their hurry to escape?’

‘And then I miraculously landed in the emergency department?’ I said, not without sarcasm.

The two detectives may have seemed like routine hacks but I hadn’t the least doubt that, along with a whole heap of other Las Vegas cops, they were on the Mob’s payroll. They had not been chosen for their stupidity and were certainly not following the usual procedures.

‘Yeah, it doesn’t seem likely the perpetrators would do that,’ Gillespie admitted. ‘Perhaps the original perpetrators left you lying in the road in the dark, and a second motorist came along and didn’t see you until it was too late and drove over your hand. He is a good citizen, but doesn’t want to get involved.’ He paused. ‘If he called an ambulance he could get caught up in a possible future court case, always a long and thankless process.’ He paused again. ‘But, thankfully, he, or they – we expect it was more than one person, as you are a big man to lift – had a conscience and, instead of driving off and leaving you, dropped you off here, at emergency.’

Stone then reminded me, ‘There are no witnesses, sir. The doctor who examined you in emergency says in his report . . .’ he flicked several pages of his notepad, ‘Yeah, here, “
The damage to the patient’s hand is consistent with it having being run over by the wheel of a motor vehicle
”.’

I sighed, knowing it was pointless to carry on. There was nowhere to go, I was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I shrugged. ‘What can I say? I guess it was a car that ran over my hand, after all.’

The two detectives remained poker-faced. ‘We will prepare your statement, sir,’ Myles Stone said in an even voice.

‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Gillespie added, turning to his partner with the merest hint of a smile. I was forced to silently congratulate Manny ‘Asshole’ de Costa on his choice of policemen to bribe – Sammy would never have had the sagacity to pick these two. ‘We will return in two or three days to have you read and sign your statement, Mr Spayd,’ Gillespie concluded.

With a permanently damaged left hand, my musical career was effectively over and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that. Sammy had kept his promise to get even. I tried to tell myself I was a near-professional poker player and as long as I could hold a hand of cards, I’d have something going for me. But if poker was an addiction, then music was an overwhelming obsession; one could never replace the other. Perhaps a medical miracle at the hands of the Albany surgeon with the unpronounceable name? It was worth a try; that is, if I ever managed to get to Dr Haghighi at Albany General Hospital. With Sammy still alive, I convinced myself, Chicago would want to clean up the mess. It made perfect sense; this was no longer just about Sammy, there were too many loose ends, too much that could go wrong and too much at stake, and that would mean getting rid of the prime witness. I was the big red bullseye on the target.

I thought constantly of Bridgett’s offer to resign and be with me, and about the irony of this. With an undamaged hand I’d have done anything to be with her, accepted any terms she cared to nominate, but now it was impossible. Mrs Bridgett Fuller was an exceptional example of the human race and if I – I mean, Sammy – hadn’t . . . I couldn’t take the thought any further. I asked myself who would want an ex-pianist for a husband, one who was addicted to poker playing and who lacked any other means of gainful employment. A great catch, I don’t think! Mrs Fuller, with her potential wealth from the two points in the Firebird, giving me my pocket money, my stake, to play cards with my pals. Pathetic thought. I could still go back home, and maybe reapply to take up my vet scholarship and eventually become a suburban doctor. I knew I’d have to give that some serious thought but, I must admit, it still didn’t appeal. Writing prescriptions for people with sniffles hardly compared with the life I’d been living . . .

Bridgett Fuller was an intelligent, clear-eyed, pragmatic and – using the word in its best possible sense – calculating woman. If she hadn’t been, she could never have survived all those years working with Chicago. The idea that she’d give up her career to care for me was unreasonable and I simply wouldn’t allow my imagination to go any further.

You may laugh at me, after my cowardly acceptance of the police version of my ‘mugging’, but I still had a scrap of my tattered pride left. To have her in my life because she felt guilty about my hand was simply out of the question.

In the weeks since my ordeal she’d proved herself a loving, thoughtful and kind friend. Now it was time for her to leave my life forever and get on with her own; one that would prove peaceful and guilt-free and in which her hard-earned two points would soon allow her to live in luxury.

I admit, I felt sorry for myself and I had a second great howl into my pillow after the two cops left.

Bridgett turned up the next day, as usual. Being Bridgett, she’d somehow managed to persuade the hospital staff she could visit outside normal visiting hours. ‘Jack, your room gets too crowded; I don’t like to share you,’ she laughed. If my days could be said to have a highlight, it was certainly when she was by my bedside.

I guess I couldn’t help myself; I needed a mother confessor after the police interview and I told her everything. She didn’t comment except to say in that practical way she had, ‘Jack, you were right to agree to their terms. Have you signed the statement they’ve prepared?’

‘No, they haven’t returned yet, they said it might take two or three days.’

She gave me a suspicious look. ‘They said that . . . two or three days? Hmm.’ Then she advised, ‘Sign it, but read it through carefully first, every comma, every full stop.’ There had been no criticism and no judgment, just sound advice. ‘As soon as Dr Light says you may leave, I’ll make the arrangements to get you safely back to Canada.’

I felt like a complete heel; worse than that. I hadn’t told her about Albany and Dr Haghighi’s offer, which I’d accepted. I was afraid she’d insist on accompanying me.

A few days after the surgeon from Albany had departed, Dr Light finished examining my hand and said, ‘Jack, it’s coming along nicely. I’ll release you to go to Albany General Hospital as soon as you’re well enough to travel by air. You okay for funds?’ I assured him I was. I’d asked Bridgett to sell my apartment, using this as an additional ploy to stop her insisting on accompanying me east. But, of course, when I did mention Albany to her, she wanted to come and took a fair bit of dissuading not to.

To my delight, she had decided to allow Chef Napoleon Nelson to take my place in the GAWP Bar. I used this as a further reason for her to stay right where she was. ‘Bridgett, despite your new year’s triumph, not all your GAWP ladies will be thrilled. He’ll need training and he’ll need you.’ It made sense and she agreed.