Once a Crooked Man (39 page)

Rocco did not appreciate the humor. Harry suggested he sit in a corner out of the way. Then he took out the player from its packing, installed the batteries and ripped the layers of plastic off a CD. A few bars of “Eleanor Rigby” assured him that it worked. In case anyone asked questions, for the next hour he wrote out a brief bio for each of the group, making up names of their families and where they lived and worked.

First to arrive was Mark Masterson carrying his drumsticks in a roll of cloth and with an old briar pipe clenched in heavily stained teeth.

“Hi, Harry,” he said as they shook hands. “Good to see you again. How you been?”

“Fine,” replied Harry. “Just fine. Saw Val in McCabe's last month. Told me you were going on the road with some rock-and-roll musical?”

“I went. It didn't. So here we are!” He walked over and eyed the drum set. “What's this one all about?”

Before he could get an answer heavy footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Paul Appleton.

“Whassup, Murph?” he said, giving Harry a bear hug. The two broke apart and high-fived each other. “This is quite a gig, man. Nice trip to Ye Olde Country with all expenses paid! How did you swing this one?”

“It wasn't easy,” Harry replied, and seeing Paul glance over at Rocco, he added, “Oh, I'd like you to meet Dino Saldutti. He's going to help with the gear. I should warn you, Dino is a man of few words.”

The three shook hands as Travis appeared at the foot of the stairs with Joey Konecsny, who had a shaved head, goatee and mustache.

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “Mark Masterson! And Paul! You guys in on this? Hi, Harry!” Everyone hugged and backslapped one another. Unaccustomed to such demonstrative affection Rocco withdrew to his chair.

Travis headed for the instrument cases. “What magic have we here?” he said, and pulled out a guitar. “Shit, Harry!” he exclaimed. “You got me the real thing!”

“You have to look the part.”

“A Höfner bass!” said Paul, opening another. “It's not left-handed, is it?”

“Could you play it if it was?” laughed Harry.

“I can't wait to play this baby,” said Joey, putting a Gretsch Tennessean over his head. “What time are we on?”

“Between the opener and the main act. Around nine.”

“How long do we play?” asked Mark, repositioning the drums. Even in the dim light the mother-of-pearl shone brightly.

“They're expecting four songs,” replied Harry, amazed how easily he could lie. “I reckon it'll be about a half hour. Enough for the documentary.”

“Who's going to shoot our sterling efforts?” asked Travis.

“BBC Midlands. I have a crew meeting us at the club. I figure the easiest way to get going is to listen to the music. It's pretty simple stuff melodically. You've heard it a thousand times. Shouldn't be too hard for you. If anyone has a preference…”

“Let him speak now or forever hold his peace,” said Travis.

The group chose “Can't Buy Me Love” as the opener, followed by “When I'm Sixty-Four” and “A Hard Day's Night.” They would close with “Norwegian Wood.” The encore would be “Ticket to Ride.” Harry played the first song a couple of times. One by one the musicians picked up their parts and joined in. By the third time they were ready to try it without the CD.

Harry watched as the Jersey Jumpers played and sang. With so little rehearsal the result was astonishing. Cora came down and listened for a short time. Harry sensed she would have liked to dance.

They rehearsed for a further fifteen minutes and then Harry lined them up against the wall holding their guitars. He took a photograph using the digital camera. Before the four men left he gave them details of the flight, instructions as to where they should meet at Kennedy, a hundred dollars for cab fare and each of their fictitious bios.

As soon as he was alone he put in a call to a friend whose brother Fred worked at the
Post
.

“Alan. Harry Murphy. I need a favor.” He gave Alan the details and then said, “Cool. Thanks. It's on a SanDisk, so I'll messenger it over to him right away with a note.” He took a pen and paper, scribbled out a message and removed the disk from the camera.

Giving it to Rocco, he said, “Get these over to the
Post
at 1211 Avenue of the Americas. Tell them it's urgent and should go direct to the desk of Fred Christianson. He's expecting it. And I'll need a suitcase for my clothes.”

 

75

The telephone next to the bed rang. Max picked it up. It was Rocco.

“Yes?” said Max.

“Murphy has come up with a scheme.”

“Yeah? Will it work?”

“The odds are good. We leave tomorrow. He's already checked the flight.”

Max hung up and lay back on the pillow. A prone Lizzie beside him smiled. “Harry's done it again, hasn't he?”

“Seems like he has.”

“Now what?” she asked provocatively.

“Time to get going,” Max said, and jumped off the bed.

In the living room he flipped back the rug and opened up the safe.

“Now, let me see,” he said, taking out the passports. “Who are we going to be?”

 

76

Rocco came back down the stairs. “Your disk has been delivered.”

“Great!” replied Harry. “Now get me a flask of coffee. I'll be ready for the cash in about an hour.”

His estimate was optimistic. Detaching the foam from the fabric in the case without tearing it proved more difficult than he had thought.

Heels clicked on the stairs. Cora came down to collect the dishes.

“That was quite a performance,” she said, picking up the tray. “They play together a lot?”

“No. First time,” replied Harry.

“Really? Sounded damn good.”

“It was also the last.”

“Pity,” she said, and left.

Rocco came down with another tray. This one was piled with bundles of new notes. Harry wrapped each one tightly in clear plastic and glued them into the case, rotating every other bundle. The lining was replaced and smoothed down. Finally the material was edged back into the groove around the top.

With the guitar back in, he closed the case and picked it up. It felt exactly as it did before he started. The added weight made little significant difference.

Four cases were dismantled, packed with money and restored. Once again Harry's only concern was the smell of the adhesive. Rocco fetched a commercial fan from the kitchen and set it up to blow a stream of air across the room. Harry was pleased with himself. He lay down on the floor and listened to the whirring of the fan.

Rocco shook him awake. It was time to leave.

Kneeling down beside him, Rocco said, “Just for the record, Mister Murphy, if you make an attempt to contact anyone, by any means, at any time, I will kill you. Understand?”

“Yes. I know the drill,” said Harry. “I'll be dead meat.”

Rocco looked blankly at him.

“Forget about it.” said Harry. “It's an inside joke.”

The fan had done the trick. No more smell. The instruments were carefully replaced, the cases closed up and labeled.

After he had washed, shaved and packed his new suitcase, Harry helped Benny and Rocco load everything into a panel truck out front and they set off. Once past the Van Wyck Expressway they sped to the terminal and turned up the departure ramp. The luggage was unloaded and Benny drove off as Harry summoned a skycap.

The Jersey Jumpers were waiting at the counter. Harry gathered the passports and checked everyone in. The cases were tagged, replaced on the trolley and wheeled over to baggage security. Harry watched as everything went through the scanner. As the cases came out the other end they were simply moved over to the conveyor belt. As Harry had hoped, the carefully arranged metal strips in the money had again been taken for webbing in the padding.

First hurdle cleared.

Everything continued to go smoothly until Travis went through the metal detector. In spite of his removing his shoes, watch, keys, small change, money clip, cellphone, belt and jewelry, the red light flashed and there was a loud beep. Travis was told to stand to one side and spread his legs. An electronic wand was waved over him from head to foot. He leaned over and whispered to the TSA agent. She put down the wand and patted him down with her hands and then let him pass.

Harry was putting on his belt and shoes. “What was all that about?” he asked.

“Don't ask,” replied Travis.

“I am asking.”

“Well, dear boy,” he confessed, “I am wearing a corset. Evidently the manufacturers thought fit to use metal stays.”

“Metal what?”

“Precisely. For one horrifying moment I thought that woman was going to get me to strip.”

Harry laughed. “I'd have paid money to see that.”

“To see what?” asked Mark from the other side of the table.

“Enough!” Travis called out and they headed for the food court.

Harry didn't eat. His nervous stomach advised him to avoid all food. At a newsstand he bought a
Post,
opened it up and smiled at what he saw. Tearing out the page, he folded it and put it in his pocket.

Rocco watched every move he made.

The journey across the Atlantic was bumpy but uneventful. In Immigration the passport line was long but moved quickly and the group soon descended the escalator to the baggage claim area.

One by one the luggage from their flight came slowly round the moving beltway. Mark, Travis and Paul retrieved their suitcases. Harry's was the last. As he pulled it free a small terrier appeared with his handler, sniffing his way around.

Travis leaned down to pat the little fellow on the head. The dog snapped. The actor backed quickly away. Harry waited until the dog had gone to the next carousel before he walked over to the oversize section. Rocco followed. The cases were all there. Safe and sound. So far so good.

“All these belong to you, mate?” said a cheerful porter.

“Yes,” replied Harry.

“Got the claim checks handy, have you?”

Harry took out his passport and extracted the baggage tags. Together they checked all the numbers. The porter loaded Harry's and the band's luggage and the cases onto a trolley and pushed it toward the exit.

“Got anything to declare?” he asked.

“I can't think of anything,” said Harry. He looked at Rocco. “Can you?”

Rocco shook his head.

“Right you are then,” said the helpful man. The whole group passed beneath the green sign.

An officer stepped forward and motioned for them to stop. “What's all this then?” he asked, looking at the metal cases.

“We're a band,” said Harry with a friendly smile.

“Bound for Liverpool,” added Travis.

“Where we are playing in a club,” said Joey proudly.

“Really?” was the flat reply. “What are these? Guitar cases?”

“Not just guitar cases!” exclaimed Travis. “But cases containing the exact kinds of instruments played upon by the Beatles back in the sixties.” He pointed at the bottom case. “That's mine. A three-five-six Rickenbacker. Would you like to see it? It really is amazing.”

Harry prayed his group would shut up before they were all marched off for interrogation. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a second officer approaching. This man's shirt was starched and his hair was close-cropped. On his upper lip was a handlebar mustache.

“What's up, Jack?” asked the new arrival.

“They're musicians. Going up north. These are their instruments.”

Both men looked at the cases. There was an awkward pause. Harry said calmly, “Here. Take a look at this.”

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the page from the
Post,
unfolded it and handed it over. At the top was the photograph of the smiling group in the basement of Mazaras. Below it a headline proclaimed “Big Beatle Birthday Bash!” Beneath was the story of the trip just as Harry had written it. The supervisor compared the faces on the page to the faces in front of him.

“Who are you then?” he asked Rocco.

“I work for him,” said Rocco, pointing at Harry.

“He's our techie,” said Harry smoothly.

The supervisor made another circle of the cases. “How long will you be in the United Kingdom?” he asked.

“Just a couple of days,” murmured Harry as nonchalantly as he could.

“All these will be returning with you to the States when you leave?”

“Absolutely.” Harry smiled.

“All right,” Jack said with a wave of his arm. “Off you go then.”

Relief swept over Harry as they passed from the customs area, and he felt almost euphoric as he made arrangements at Avis for the two vans to be brought around to the passenger loading area. A slight drizzle fell as the porter trundled the trolley outside. Harry pulled his raincoat from his suitcase and put it on.

The group's luggage went into the first van and the instruments with Rocco's and Harry's suitcases into the second.

Joey had been selected to drive. “You okay on the left?” Harry asked.

“No problem,” replied Joey.

“You have the address of the hotel?”

Travis eased himself into the front passenger seat. “Do not worry, dear boy,” he stated imperiously. “I have all the pertinent information and the latest Michelin Guide. I shall navigate.”

A police officer with an automatic weapon across his chest was coming towards them. The doors slammed shut and Joey drove off with everyone waving and smiling. Mark sang, “
It's been a hard day's night…”
and they disappeared around the corner.

Harry drove the other van through the tunnel out of the airport, around the traffic circle and over to the Motorway. He turned on the wipers and they thumped to and fro across the windshield.