Shoot the Piano Player (3 page)

"Easy, Turl--"

Turley was feeling it deep. He stood up, shouting again, "It oughtta be a grand piano, with candlesticks like that other cat has. Where's the candlesticks? Whatsa matter here? You cheap or somethin'? You can't afford no candlesticks?"

"Aaah, close yer head," some nearby beerguzzler offered.

Turley didn't hear the heckler. He went on shouting, tears streaming down his rough-featured face. The cuts in his mouth had opened again and the blood was trickling from his lips. "And there's something wrong somewhere," he proclaimed to the audience that had no idea who he was or what he was talking about, "--like anyone knows that two and two adds up to four but this adds up to minus three. It just ain't right and it calls for some kind of action--"

"You really want action?" a voice inquired pleasantly.

It was the voice of the bouncer, formerly known as the Harleyville Hugger, known now in the Hut by his real name, Wally Plyne, although certain admirers still insisted it was Hugger. He stood there, five feet nine and weighing two-twenty. There was very little hair on his head, and what remained was clipped short, fuzzy. His left ear was somewhat out of shape, and his nose was a wreck, fractured so many times that now it was hardly a nose at all. It was more like a blob of putty flattened onto the roughgrained face. In Plyne's mouth there was considerable bridgework, and ribboning down from his chin and toward the collarbone was a poorly stitched scar, obviously an emergency job performed by some intern. Plyne was not pleased with the scar. He wore his shirt collar buttoned high to conceal it as much as possible. He was extremely sensitive about his battered face, and when anyone looked at him too closely he'd stiffen and his neck would swell and redden. His eyes would plead with the looker not to laugh. There'd been times when certain lookers had ignored the plea, and the next thing they knew, their ribs were fractured and they had severe internal injuries. At Harriet's Hut the first law of self-preservation was never laugh at the bouncer.

The bouncer was forty-three years old.

He stood there looking down at Turley. He was waiting for an answer. Turley looked up at him and said, "Why you buttin' in? Cantcha see I'm talkin'?"

"You're talking too loud," Plyne said. His tone remained pleasant, almost sympathetic. He was looking at the tears rolling down Turley's cheeks.

"If I don't talk loud they won't hear me," Turley said. "I want them to hear me."

"They got other things to do," Plyne said patiently. "They're drinkin' and they don't wanna be bothered."

"That's what's wrong," Turley sobbed. "Nobody wantsa be bothered."

Plyne took a deep breath. He said to Turley, "Now look, whoever messed up your face like that, you go ahead and hit him back. But not here. This here's a quiet place of business--"

"What you sellin' me?" Turley blinked the tears away, his tone changing to a growl. "Who asked you to be sorry for my goddam face? It's my face. The lumps are mine, the cuts are mine. You better worry about your own damn face."

"Worry?" Plyne was giving careful thought to the remark. "How you mean that?"

Turley's eyes and lips started a grin, his mouth started a reply. Before the grin could widen, before the words could come, Eddie moved in quickly, saying to Plyne, "He didn't mean anything, Wally. Cantcha see he's all mixed up?"

"You stay out of this," Plyne said, not looking at Eddie. He was studying Turley's face, waiting for the grin to go away.

The grin remained. At nearby tables there was a waiting quiet. The quiet spread to other tables, then to all the tables, and then to the crowded bar. They were all staring at the big man who stood there grinning at Plyne.

"Get it off," Plyne told Turley. "Get it off your face."

Turley widened the grin.

Plyne took another deep breath. Something came into his eyes, a kind of dull glow. Eddie saw it and knew what it meant. He was up from the piano stool, saying to Plyne, "Don't, Wally. He's sick."

"Who's sick?" Turley challenged. "I'm in grade-A shape. I'm ready for--"

"He's ready for a brain examination," Eddie said to Plyne, to the staring audience. "He ran into a pole and banged his head. Look at that bump. If it ain't a fracture it's maybe a concussion."

"Call for an ambulance," someone directed.

"Lookit, he's bleeding from the mouth," another voice put in. "Could be that's from the busted head."

Plyne blinked a few times. The glow faded from his eyes.

Turley went on grinning. But now the grin wasn't aimed at Plyne or anyone or anything else. Again it was the idiotic grin.

Plyne looked at Eddie. "You know him?"

Eddie shrugged. "Sort of."

"Who is he?"

Another shrug. "I'll take him outside. Let him get some air-"

Plyne's thick fingers closed on Eddie's sleeve. "1 asked you something. Who is he?"

"You hear the man?" It was Turley again, coming out of the brain-battered fog. "The man says he wantsa know. I think he's got a point there."

"Then you tell me," Plyne said to Turley. He stepped closer, peering into the glazed eyes. "Maybe you don't need an ambulance, after all. Maybe you ain't really hurt that bad. Can you tell me who you are?"

"Brother."

"Whose brother?"

"His." Turley pointed to Eddie.

"I didn't know he had a brother." Plyne said.

"Well, that's the way it goes." Turley spoke to all the nearby tables. "You learn something new every day."

"I'm willing to learn," Plyne said. And then, as though Eddie wasn't there, "He never talks about himself. There's a lota things about him I don't know."

"You don't?" Turley had the grin again. "How long has he worked here?"

"Three years."

"That's a long time," Turley said. "You sure oughtta have him down pat by now.

"Nobody's got him down pat. Only thing we know for sure, he plays the piano."

"You pay him wages?"

"Sure we pay him wages."

"To do what?"

"Play the piano."

"And what else?"

"Just that," Plyne said. "We pay him to play the piano, that's all."

"You mean you don't pay him wages to talk about himself?"

Plyne tightened his lips. He didn't reply.

Turley moved in closer. "You want it all for free, don't you? But the thing is, you can't get it for free. You wanna learn about a person, it costs you. And the more you learn, the more it costs. Like digging a well, the deeper you go, the more expenses you got. And sometimes it's a helluva lot more than you can afford."

"What you getting at?" Plyne was frowning now. He turned his head to look at the piano man. He saw the carefree smile and it bothered him, it caused his frown to darken. There was only a moment of that, and then he looked again at Turley. He got rid of the frown and said, "All right, never mind. This talk means nothing. It's jabber, and you're punchy, and I got other things to do. I can't stay here wasting time with you."

The bouncer walked away. The audience at the bar and the tables went back to drinking. Turley and Eddie were seated now, Eddie facing the keyboard, hitting a few chords and starting a tune. It was a placid, soft-sweet tune and the dreamy sounds brought a dreamy smile to Turley's lips. "That's nice," Turley whispered. "That's really nice."

The music went on and Turley nodded slowly, unaware that he was nodding. As his head came up, and started to go down again, he saw the front door open.

Two men came in.

2

That's them," Turley said.

Eddie went on making the music.

"That's them, all right," Turley said matter-of-factly.

The door closed behind the two men and they stood there turning their heads very slowly, looking from crowded tables to crowded bai back to the tables, to the bar again, looking everywhere.

Then they spotted Turley. They started forward.

"Here they come," Turley said, stifi matter-of-factly. "Look at them."

Eddie's eyes stayed on the keyboard. He had his mind on the keyboard. The warm-cool music flowed on and now it was saying to Turley, It's your problem, entirely yours, keep me out of it.

The two men came closer. They moved slowly. The tables were close-packed, blocking their path. They were trying to move faster, to force their way through.

"Here they come," Turley said. "They're really coming now."

Don't look, Eddie said to himself. You take one look and that'll do it, that'll pull you into it. You don't want that, you're here to play the piano, period. But what's this? What's happening? There ain't no music now, your fingers are off the keyboard.

He turned his head and looked and saw the two men coming closer.

They were well-dressed men. The one in front was short and very thin, wearing a pearl-gray felt hat and a white silk muffler and a single-breasted, dark blue overcoat. The man behind him was thin, too, but much taller. He wore a hat of darker gray, a black-and-silver striped muffler, and his overcoat was a dark gray six-button-benny.

Now they were halfway across the room, There was more space here between the tables. They were coming faster.

Eddie jabbed stiffened fingers into Turley's ribs. "Don't sit there. Get up and go."

"Go where?" And there it was again, the idiotic grin.

"Side door," Eddie hissed at him, gave him another finger-stiffened jab, harder this time.

"Hey, quit that," Turley said. "That hurts."

"Does it?" Another jab made it really hurt, pulled the grin off Turley's face, pulled his rump off the chair. Then Turley was using his legs, going past the stacked pyramid of beer cases, walking faster and faster and finally lunging toward the side door.

The two men took a short cut, going diagonally away from the tables. They were running now, streaking to intercept Turley. It looked as though they had it made.

Then Eddie was up from the piano stool, seeing Turley aiming at the side door some fifteen feet away. The two men were closing in on Turley. They'd pivoted off the diagonal path and now they ran parallel to the pyramid of beer cases. Eddie made a short rush that took him into the highstacked pile of bottle-filled cardboard boxes. He gave the pile a shoulder bump and a box came down and then another box, and more boxes. It caused a traffic jam as the two men collided with the fallen beer cases, tripped over the cardboard hurdles, went down and got up and tripped again. While that happened, Turley opened the side door and ran out.

Some nine beer cases had fallen off the stacked pyramid and several of the bottles had come loose to hit the floor and break. The two men were working hard to get past the blockade of cardboard boxes and broken bottles. One of them, the shorter one, was turning his head to catch a glimpse of whatever funnyman had caused this fiasco. He saw Eddie standing there near the partially crumbled pyramid. Eddie shrugged and lifted his arms in a sheepish gesture, as though to say, An accident, I just bumped into it, that's all. The short thin man didn't say anything. There wasn't time for a remark.

Eddie went back to the piano. He sat down and started to play. He hit a few soft chords, the dim and far-off smile drifting onto his lips while the two thin well-dressed men finally made it to the side door. Through the soft sound of the music he heard the hard sound of the door slamming shut behind them.

He went on playing. There were no wrong notes, no breaks in the rhythm, but he was thinking of Turley, seeing the two men going after Turley along the too-dark streets in the too-cold stillness out there that might be broken any moment now by the sound of a shot.

But I don't think so, he told himself. They didn't have that look, as though they were gunning for meat. It was more of a bargaining look, like all they want is to sit down with Turley and talk some business.

What kind of business? Well, sure, you know what kind. It's something on the shady side. He said it was Clifton's transaction and that puts it on the shady side, with Turl stooging for Clifton like he's always done. So whatever it is, they're in a jam again, your two dear brothers. It's a first-class talent they have for getting into jams, getting out, and getting in again. You think they'll get out this time? Well, we hope so. We really hope so. We wish them luck, and that about says it. So what you do now is get off the trolley. It ain't your ride and you're away from it.

A shadow fell across the keyboard. He tried not to see it, but it was there and it stayed there. He turned his head sideways and saw the bulky legs, the barrel torso and the mashed-nosed face of the bouncer.

He went on playing.

"That's pretty." Plyne said.

Eddie nodded his thanks.

"It's very pretty," Plyne said. "But it just ain't pretty enough. I don't wanna hear any more."

Eddie stopped playing. His arms came down limply at his sides. He sat there and waited.

"Tell me something," the bouncer said. "What is it with you?"

Eddie shrugged.

Plyne took a deep breath. "God damn it," he said to no one in particular. "I've known this party for three years now and I hardly know him at all."

Eddie's soft smile was aimed at the keyboard. He tapped out a few idle notes in the middle octaves.

"That's all you'll ever get from him," Plyne said to invisible listeners. "That same no-score routine. No matter what comes up, it's always I-don't-know-from-nothing."

Eddie's fingers stayed there in the middle octaves.

The bouncer's manner changed. His voice was hard. "I told you to stop playing."

The music stopped. Eddie went on looking at the keyboard. He said, "What is it, Wally? What is it bothers you?"

"You really wanna know?" Plyne said it slowly, as though he'd scored a point. "All right, take a look." His arm stretched out, the forefinger rigid and aiming at the littered floor, the overturned cardboard boxes, the bottles, the scattered glass and the spilled beer foaming on the splintered floor boards.

Eddie shrugged again. "I'll clean it up," he said, and started to rise from the piano stool. Plyne pushed him back onto it.

"Tell me," Ptyne said, and pointed again at the beerstained floor. "What's the deal on that?"

"Deal?" The piano man seemed bewildered. "No deal at all. It was an accident. I didn't see where I was going, and I bumped into--"

But it was no use going on. The bouncer wasn't buying it. "Wanna bet?" the bouncer asked mildly. "Wanna bet it wasn't no accident?"

Eddie didn't reply.

"You won't tell me, I'll tell you," Plyne said. "A tagteam play, that's what it was."

"Could be." Eddie gave a very slight shrug. "I might have done it without thinking, I mean sort of unconsciouslike. I'm really not sure--"

"Not much you ain't." Plyne showed a thick wet smile that widened gradually. "You handled that stunt like you'd planned it on paper. The timing was perfect."

Eddie blinked several times. He told himself to stop it. He said to himself, Something is happening here and you better check it before it goes further.

But there was no way to check it. The bouncer was saying, "First time I ever saw you pull that kind of caper. In all the years you been here, you never butted in, not once. No matter what the issue was, no matter who was in it. So how come you butted in tonight?"

Another slight shrug, and the words coming softly, "I might have figured he could use some help, like I said, I'm not really sure. Or, on the other hand, you see someone in a jam, you remind yourself he's a close relative--I don't know, it's something along those lines."

Plyne's face twisted in a sort of disgusted grimace, as though he knew there was no use digging any deeper. He turned and started away from the piano.

Then something stopped him and caused him to turn and come back. He leaned against the side of the piano. For some moments he said nothing, just listened to the music, his brow creased slightly in a moderately thoughtful frown. Then, quite casually, he moved his heavy hand, brushing Eddie's fingers away from the keyboard.

Eddie looked up, waiting.

"Gimme some more on this transaction." the bouncer said.

"Like what?"

"Them two men you stalled with the beer cases. What's the wire on them?"

"I don't know," Eddie said.

"You don't know why they were chasing him?"

"Ain't got the least idea."

"Come on, come on."

"I can't tell you, Wally. I just don't know."

"You expect me to buy that?"

Eddie shrugged and didn't reply.

"All right," Plyne said. "We'll try it from another angle. This brother of yours. What's his line?"

"Don't know that either. Ain't seen him for years. Last I knew, he was working on Dock Street."

"Doing what?"

"Longshoreman."

"You don't know what he's doing now?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you."

"Yeah, sure." Plyne was folding his thick arms high on his chest. "Spifi," he said. "Come on, spffl'

Eddie smiled amiably at the bouncer. "What's all this courtroom action?" And then, the smile widening, "You going to law school, Wally? You practicing on me?"

"It ain't like that," Plyne said. He was stumped for a moment. "It's just that I wanna be sure, that's all. I mean-- well, the thing of it is, I'm general manager here. Whatever happens in the Hut, I'm sorta responsible. You know that."

Eddie nodded, his eyebrows up. "That's a point."

"You're damn right it is," the bouncer pressed his advantage. "I gotta make sure this place keeps its license. It's a legitimate place of business. If I got anything to say, it's gonna stay legitimate."

"You're absolutely right," Eddie said.

"I'm glad you know it." Plyne's eyes were narrowed again. "Another thing you'd better know, I got more brains than you think. Can't play no music or write poems or anything like that, but sure as hell I can add up a score. Like with this brother of yours and them two engineers who wanted him for more than just a friendly chat."

"That adds," Eddie said.

"It adds perfect," Plyne approved his own arithmetic. "And I'll add it some more. I'll give it to you right down the line. He mighta been a longshoreman then, but it's a cinch he's switched jobs. He's lookin' for a higher income now. Whatever work he's doing, there's heavy cash involved--"

Eddie was puzzled. He was saying to himself, The dumber you play it, the better.

"Them two engineers," the bouncer was saying, "they weren't no small-timers. I gandered the way they were dressed. Them overcoats were hand-stitched; I know that custom quality when I see it. So we take it from there, we do it with arrows--"

"With what?"

"With arrows," Plyne said, his finger tracing an arrowline on the side of the piano. "From them to your brother. From your brother to you."

"Me?" Eddie laughed lightly. "You're not adding it now. You're stretching it."

"But not too far," Plyne said. "Because it's more than just possible. Because there ain't nothing wrong with my peepers. I seen your brother sitting here and giving you that sales talk. It's like he wants you in on the deal, whatever it is--"

Eddie was laughing again.

"What's funny?" Plyne asked.

Eddie went on laughing. It wasn't loud laughter, but it was real. He was trying to hold it back and he couldn't.

"Is it me?" Plyne spoke very quietly. "You laughing at me?"

"At myself," Eddie managed to say through the laughter. "I got a gilt-framed picture of the setup. The big deal, with me the key man, that final arrow pointing at me. You must be kidding, Wally. Just take a look and see for yourself. Look at the key man."

Plyne looked, seeing the thirty-a-week musician who sat there at the battered piano, the soft-eyed, soft-mouthed nobody whose ambitions and goals aimed at exactly zero, who'd been working here three years without asking or even hinting for a raise. Who never grumbled when the tips were stingy, or griped about anything, for that matter, not even when ordered to help with the chairs and tables at closing time, to sweep the floor, to take out the trash.

Plyne's eyes focused on him and took him in. Three years, and aside from the music he made, his presence at the Hut meant nothing. It was almost as though he wasn't there and the piano was playing all by itself. Regardless of the action at the tables or the bar, the piano man was out of it, not even an observer. He had his back turned and his eyes on the keyboard, content to draw his pauper's wages and wear pauper's rags. A gutless wonder, Plyne decided, fascinated with this living example of absolute neutrality. Even the smile was something neutral. It was never aimed at a woman. It was aimed very far out there beyond all tangible targets, really far out there beyond the leftfield bleachers. So where does that take it? Plyne asked himself. And of course there was no answer, not even the slightest clue.