Richmond Noir (17 page)
“Jamila,
habibi
, I followed you here. Look, I want to talk to you for real, because you’re making a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” I said, angry that he wasn’t Ivan. I had already gotten psyched up for getting killed. “I’m not going to work at your club and I don’t like being followed, so get lost.”
“No, seriously.” He placed his hand on the door to my trailer. “Lemme talk to you because you’re making a
big mistake.”
“I think you’re the one who’s mistaken,” I said through my teeth, leaning my weight against the door to keep him out. “I don’t want anything to do with your club. Now get lost.”
“Fuck you. I drive all the way to the
Southside
to a fucking
trailer park
to give you a job and you don’t have no manners?” He stuck the toe of his Italian leather shoe against the door and kept it there. “You fucking piece of trash, you should be
grateful
I even talk to you!” His breath came through the crack of the door, hot in my face, smelling like fruity tobacco. Over his head I could just see the window of Beau’s trailer. Beau stood up slowly from the sofa, looked my way, and turned out his light.
“Fuck you,
sharmouta!”
Marwan spat once, twice on the steps of my trailer. “You’re not even beautiful!
Kelbeh!”
After his last insult, he smacked the side of the trailer hard with his open palm. The vibration made the cymbals on the table chime faintly, like a distant call to prayer. Marwan wedged his arm and shoulder into the crack of the door and grabbed a handful of my hair. I leaned back to pull myself loose, but I couldn’t get far enough away and keep the door shut, so instead I tried to twist around and bite him. I had just gotten a good toothhold on his wrist when his body jerked up like a marionette. Through the crack of the door I saw Beau’s big arm hooked around Marwan’s neck. Beau pulled him out of my door, off my step, and up into a standing camel clutch that would have made the Iron Sheik proud.
Beau held Marwan like that for a good thirty seconds, just long enough to scare him, and then flung him loose onto the ground. It was a short fall, broken by an errant cinder block. Every trailer park has them. Unfortunately for Marwan, this one happened to be exactly where it was, and its corner made a sickening
thud
as it connected with his temple.
Beau and I stood there for a long time. Looking at Marwan, looking at each other, feeling bad, but not as bad as we might have.
Bobby Harvey came wandering through after a while, making his last evening check of the trailer park.
“I didn’t see anything,” he said to us. “Did y’all?”
We both shook our heads.
“Good. Now get on inside before somebody does.”
There are some things that don’t warrant much investigation. A dead strip club manager in a shiny tie on Jeff Davis Highway is one of those things. Particularly if nobody in the trailer park heard anything or saw anything. And, not to gild any lilies, but just suppose there was a crack rock or two in his hand when the police got there, well, these things happen in trailer parks
all the time
. Such is life. I’m sure the Arabs have a saying about it, and it’s probably close to what my Arab said when he realized that the body he’d been called out of bed for was one of his guys.
“Rahimahullah!
His daddy should have beat him harder.”
The police took a report, but beyond that there was no investigation to speak of. The man’s wallet was empty. According to the girls at the club, he usually kept about five hundred dollars in cash on him—
usually
meaning on the nights he didn’t drop seventy-two dollars at a hookah bar on baba ghanoush and shoulder shimmies—so robbery was the obvious motive. The police made a point of coming around and reminding us to lock our doors. They were especially concerned about me, what with it happening right outside my place. I told them not to worry, that the Arab was letting me move to a bigger trailer in the back of the park. Same rent, more room—and with nobody next door, I could play my cymbals as late as I wanted every night.
Now, instead of waiting tables, I dance two nights a week at the hookah bar for better tips than I ever got slinging eggs when it was a diner. Word’s gotten around and the place is usually packed—Muhammad actually pays me now, and he’s even put a picture of me in the window, next to the picture of his famous kebabs. I still clean a trailer for the Arab every couple of months, not so much for the money but just to keep my title and help out. Because that’s what I guess family does. Saleem talks to me in my dreams every now and then, mostly to call me
Jamila
and ask me when I’m gonna get married. And sometimes he tells me I should eat more, I might blow away.
To my mom, who showed me
strength
A
n uneasy silence engulfed him. Occasionally, he would glance toward the driver’s seat and stare at Janie, who still wore her factory clothes. She didn’t look at him. Sighing, he moved his eyes back to the window. They flew past abandoned buildings, past Ebenezer, where he found God, and Armstrong, the school where he discovered Janie and everything else. Men sat on curbs heading nowhere, complacent. He knew them intimately—knew their stories, their fears, and their delusions. “So you ain’t gonna talk to me?” he asked, finally.
She hesitated. “What you want me to say? You don’t wanna hear what I gotta say. I ain’t ready to talk to you yet.”
“Well, you could say
somethin’.”
Her eyes narrowed. Still, he pushed the conversation: “How’d you pay the light bill?”
Words flew from her mouth like venom. “You ain’t gotta worry ’bout that, Jayden! I found a way. Not that you helped me. Not that you care.” The silence lasted until she pulled onto Marshall Street. She slammed her car door and pushed past him, through the overgrown grass and the trash people constantly threw into their yard. He followed close behind.
Once inside, he rushed to the back room. He opened the door. Nothing.
“Janie!” he screamed. He found her on the living room floor peeling potatoes into an aluminum bowl. He could barely breathe. “Where’s my piano?!”
She didn’t look up. “We need to do somethin’ ’bout all these holes in the roof. Don’t make no sense. I wake up every mornin’ and start my day covered in—”
He squatted in front of her, lifting her chin until their eyes met. “I said, where’s my piano?”
She smacked his hand away. “You ain’t gonna put your hands on me. You better get that idea out your head right now.” Her voice intensified. “Don’t you dare disrespect me, Jayden. Today is
not
the day.”
He paced, hands shaking. A lump grew in his throat.
Janie sighed. “Naw, I ain’t sell your piano. Things hard but they ain’t that hard. All these damn holes in the roof. I had to move it.”
“Where?”
“Back there.” He raced to the bedroom, where he saw it pressed against the window. He collapsed beside the doorway, smiling. But his smile didn’t last long. He walked back into the living room, dragging his feet. Janie looked up momentarily, then continued her work.
“I’m sorry,” he stumbled, “guess I overreacted a little. Who helped you move it? Quincy?”
“It got wheels.”
“Guess it does. So how’d you pay the light bill?”
“That was Quincy.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“I called my mama, Jayden.”
“Oh. You want help with them potatoes?”
She shrugged. Jayden grabbed a knife and sat beside her. They peeled together in silence, the tension building with the rhythm of the wall clock.
Then she exploded. “Where were you, Jayden? You couldn’t call me and let me know where you were?!”
“I was over Charlie’s place.”
“For a week? Tonya told me she saw you over on Belvidere talkin’ to Angelo. Called me all frantic, told the whole neighborhood, making me look like a fool. I rush from work, drive up and down the street tryin’ to find you, beg you to come with me, and for what?”
Jayden gawked but said nothing.
She slammed her knife into the bowl, producing a harsh ring. “You ain’t gonna say nothin’, Jay? You gone for a mutha-fuckin’ week and you ain’t got nothin’ to say?”
“It was only five days.”
Tears fell, but she wiped them away. “Don’t you know how worried I was? What am I supposed to do with you? What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sorry, baby—”
“You’re sorry?”
The words slid off his tongue as if rehearsed. “That was the last time. I promise. You know I got that big audition comin’ up soon—”
“It’s always the last time. Always for some reason or other.” Their eyes met. “It’s always a lie.”
He dropped the knife and hurried down the hall. He made his way to the piano, tracing the contours of the keys before he pressed down. A minor chord rang out. He exhaled, then modulated. Notes at first, then the sounds became something deeper. Ellington. “In a Sentimental Mood.” After some time, he sensed Janie in the doorway watching him; sensed her anger, her sadness, and her love. He played harder, letting his soul seep through the music. “I’ma change, baby. You wait and see.”
“What are words?” she replied, and walked away.
“Don’t forget I got you booked at the Hippodrome. The gig’s tomorrow.” Quincy mixed bacon into a sea of hard-cooked eggs. He barely swallowed, yellow bits sprinkling an unkempt goatee. He wiped it away, greasing crisp sleeves.
Jayden tried to lift coffee to his lips but his hands shook uncontrollably. Coffee spilled down his shirt before the cup finally made its way to his mouth. He gulped, then placed the cup back on the table. “I’ll be ready.” He smiled uneasily. “Ain’t no thang, you know? I was born to do shit like this.”
Quincy leaned back in the booth and laughed. “Fuck. You can’t even drink coffee, let alone play some keys.” He pointed his fork toward Jayden. “I can’t have you embarrassin’ me, man. I have a reputation.”
“I said I’ll be ready!”
“You got a song, at least? Know you’ve been strugglin’ to find somethin’ that works.”
Jayden wiped sweat from his forehead. “I’ll have some-thin’ by Thursday.”
Quincy dropped his fork on his plate, the metal clanging obnoxiously against the porcelain, drawing the attention of the other restaurant patrons. He moved to the edge of the seat, folded his arms on the table, and looked straight into Jayden’s eyes. His voice lowered. “What happened to you, Jay? What are you thinkin’? You tryin’ to go cold turkey right before the Hippodrome? The Apollo of the South. Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, and Billie Holliday all played there. You know how many people get discovered.”
“I gotta,” Jayden said defensively. “If I don’t, Janie’ll leave me.”
“So what? You gonna let some bitch destroy your dreams? Never knew you as a pussy.” The bell on the door rang furiously as a young man entered the diner. He wore a button-up at least two sizes too big; still, he stood confidently. Third Street smog mixed with the smell of bacon, but the harmony ended as the door slammed. Quincy’s eyes sparkled. “Tré! Tré, over here.”
The boy approached them briskly, a saxophone case in hand. His hair was conked, he whistled loudly. He looked no older than fourteen.
“Tré, I’d like you to meet Jayden. With some development, I think Tré’s got a future.” The young man extended his hand. Jayden reluctantly took it. “Jay here’s playin’ at the Hippodrome tomorrow night. He’s gonna sit at the piano and stare at the audience. It’s revolutionary.”
“I’ll have somethin’ composed,” Jayden mumbled.
“How’s it comin’?” Tré asked.
“It’ll come.”
“He’s goin’ cold turkey.”
“Damn!” Tré looked around the restaurant nervously. Satisfied, he reached into his coat and took out a small plastic bag. “Here.”
Jayden examined its contents, then pushed it away. “Naw, man, can’t do it. My girlfriend would have a heart attack.”
“And so will I if you fuck this up!” Quincy growled. “It was real nice of Tré to help you out.” He leaned closer. “You’ll stop shakin’ and you’ll get a song. Win-win, you feel me?”
Jayden paused, staring at the bag on the table. He wrapped his hand around the plastic and placed it in his coat pocket.
“Now you’re thinkin’.” Quincy smiled. “That’s my boy! I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Jayden replied. He placed a few dollars on the table. “Thanks for the chance, Q. Nice meeting you, Tré. You’re real generous.”
“Ain’t nothin’,” Quincy replied, finishing off his potatoes. He looked up. “Just don’t mess it up.”
Tré nodded in agreement. Jayden walked away.
He tried to find his song; tried to find that brilliance—that excellence—everyone said he had, but the more he played, the more frustrated he became. He wanted to play more than music—wanted to give the world something deeper than a beautiful arrangement. He wanted to play his life in song. But this tune wouldn’t come, no matter how much he tried. He pressed his fingers hard against the ivory, filling the room with dissonant noise.
Gingerly, hands embraced him from behind. They made their way across his shoulders, then traced his spine.
“You know, when I was a boy, my daddy used to play all night long,” Jayden said. “I’d listen from my bedroom as my Mama cursed and cried, but he’d keep playin’. Like she was just singin’ the words to his songs. After she fell asleep he’d come get me; sit me down on the bench and teach me. Then he’d put me on his lap and play poetry with glazed eyes. I wanted to be him, baby.”
Janie sat beside him, running her fingers down his thighs. “It’ll come. You’re just puttin’ a lot of pressure on yourself, that’s all.”
“I got a reason to be nervous, don’t I? This can make or break me—set us up for life—and I ain’t got any ideas. I can’t stop shakin’ and I’m sweatin’ all the time.” He looked into her eyes, asking for understanding; asking her permission for the easy way out. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him.
“It’s late. Come to bed.”
“I can’t. I ain’t got no melody. No song—”
“Yeah, you do. It’s inside. You just gotta let it go.”
“What if it don’t come in time?”
“Then it just isn’t time. Not the end of the world. There are other gigs, other clubs—”
“Of course there are other gigs and other clubs, but you only get one shot at the Hippodrome.”
Janie moved from the piano bench to the side of the bed and patted the mattress. He hesitated. She frowned. “Look, baby, you’ve been playin’ all day. I don’t think your song is gonna break through tonight.” She grabbed his arm. “Let it go.”
“A little longer, Janie.”
She sighed. “Maybe tea will calm you down. I’ll be back.” She left the room.
Jayden fumbled with the keys a little more before finally giving up. He shifted to Miles Davis’s “My Funny Valentine,” played half the song, then stopped, his muscles tensing. He took the plastic bag out of his pocket and held it, running his fingers down the smooth shaft of the needle. Frantically, he searched for a lighter.
“What you looking for?” Janie asked.
Jayden shoved the bag back in his pocket. “Nothin’.”
“I love it when you play that song.” She handed him a steaming cup.
“Thank you.” He drank quickly. She watched intently from the bed.
“I want you to know that whatever happens tomorrow, I’m proud of you.” She tugged on his arm, gently but with persistence.
Reluctantly, he moved toward her. Without wasting time, she kissed his cheek. She moved her lips down to his neck while unbuttoning his shirt. He ran his hands down her curves. His body shook. He tried to push past it—tried to take control—but there was no use. Janie moved away from him.
“I’m sorry, baby—”
“Don’t be.” She laid her head against the mattress, pulling Jayden to her chest. She wrapped her arms around him, gripping him tighter when the shaking grew more intense. He stayed in her arms all night.
Streetlights illuminated the stone exterior of the Hippodrome. Ivy covered the building; portraits of Jackson Ward adorned its façade. The marquee read: Come
See the Stars of Tomorrow
. Rain fell like the notes of a sonata, but that didn’t stop people from coming. Smooth lavender music filled the air, blending with the sound of rainwater. On most nights, people only danced on stage. Tonight, however, bodies trickled down the aisles, whiskey perfuming conversation. Women swayed their hips to syncopated music and men smiled because they knew it was all for them. The vast majority dressed casually. Janie and Jayden stood out, she wearing a tight red dress and he dressed in a five-button suit. They grabbed a booth against the back wall.
“This place used to be classy,” Janie said.
“This whole neighborhood used to be classy.” He fiddled with the plastic bag in his coat pocket. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, baby.”
“Play something old.”
“I need something new.”
“Improvise.”
An announcer in a bright white penguin suit marched to the center of the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Are y’all ready for live music?” he called out.
People clapped and yelled in excitement.
“We’ll start the show in about ten minutes. Until then, enjoy the piccolo, get loose, and relax.”
Janie placed her hand on Jayden’s thigh. “You’re gonna do fine.”
He smiled uneasily. “I gotta run to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” He made his way through the crowd of staggering people. In the haze he saw Tré sitting at the bar. The kid lifted his glass. Jayden nodded in acknowledgment. Once inside the bathroom, he headed straight for the stall. Muted music leaked inside. He took out the bag, mouth watering, hands shaking in anticipation. Thoughts of his father, his dreams, his future overwhelmed him. The music shifted from the jitterbug to classic jazz. “My Funny Valentine.” He pressed his head against the cold metal of the door, fighting. The room spun. Jayden leaned against the toilet, nauseous. He breathed hard into the bowl until the feeling went away. Slowly, he made his way back out of the stall; stared at his blurred image. “I can do this,” he whispered, splashing water on his face. He reentered the club, body shaking once more.
“Jay! Jay, over here!” Quincy sat in a booth surrounded by beautiful women. Grudgingly, Jayden approached him. “You ready?”
“It’ll be the best you ever heard, man.”
Quincy smirked. “Took your medicine, ay?”
“Naw, don’t need it.” Quincy’s smirk turned to a frown. Jayden headed back over to Janie. She took his hand.
“You gonna be wonderful, baby.” Her eyes sparkled, confident reassurance.
He believed her.
But the moment of truth came too soon. The announcer reemerged. People dashed to empty booths and chairs. “I got a real treat for y’all tonight!” he exclaimed. “This first act comes to us from the business management team of Quincy Freeman. Now, y’all know Quincy only works wit the best.” Jayden’s heart pounded through his chest. The world moved in slow motion but the announcer’s words blared with the intensity of a thousand trumpets. “I want y’all to give a warm welcome to that most excellent, that most gifted, the fifteen-year-old sax phenom himself, Tré Andrews!”
