Nine Fingers Page 13

  “How do you spell that?” I have to ask.

  “T-u-b-a,” he says.

  Serves me right.

  He stops the interview to actually show me one, a euphonium, I mean, “a rather rare exemplar,” he says, “of the double-belled variety.” It’s like some little shrunken tuba but with four valves instead of three and two horns sticking out of it instead of one, the smaller one pointing forward and the bigger one pointing up. The little horn looks like a sort of midget mutant. He fiddles with the valves, gets them working, and then plays something on it for me, some classical thing, and the guy can play the damn thing like you wouldn’t believe. It sounds about the same range as a trombone, baritone, except when you press the fourth valve, then the sound comes out of the little bell, and it is way higher, a countertenor. I look over, he has got an electric bass in the corner, a cord running to some amplifier. I ask about it. He says he plays with some rock band, too, and string bass isn’t their thing.

  Neither is double-belled euphonium, I bet.

  “As you may well infer,” he says, “I’m a bit of a dabbler, in music as well as in my academic endeavors. I seem to have this predilection for blurring the obvious boundaries.”

  Turns out the guy has two PhD’s, not one. One’s in astrophysics, the other’s in philosophy. Even got an MBA, a business degree from somewhere, had “some entrepreneurial notions early on around NASA” he puts it, “back when they were actually doing interesting research.” Couldn’t stand all the colonels. “I got on quite well with the generals, when the colonels would let me see them, but the colonels were decidedly second-order.” Figures “a more free-form academic life” fits him better.

  I bring the discussion back to Powell. Powell gets approached for this jazz band that needs a trumpet player. They also need a bass player, and he thinks of Worrell. Actually starts with them playing tuba, more old-timey style, but as the band changes he picked up the string bass, too.

  He “picks up” the string bass. Jesus.

  Guy’s nice enough, but he scares me. Lot of horsepower there, though he keeps most of it under the surface, covered by the verbal folderol, which tempts you to dismiss him as some kind of twit. I think to myself: Do not make that mistake.

  Says he wasn’t aware of Fahey’s cocaine problem. Wouldn’t know what that might look like, unless he was doing it right in front of him. Not something he ever “dabbled” in. A brain like his, it would be like putting sugar in a Lamborghini’s gas tank.

  As I get up to leave, I trip over one of the piles and send it sprawling. His eyebrows get frantic, his breath runs ragged, his neck turns red. He stands with his hands on his hips and mutters that it’s going to take him a while to get everything back in order.

  I almost laugh out loud, but catch myself. I make my voice all serious again. “Now that you mention it, Professor, I’m a little curious. Nothing to do with the case, but, how do you keep track of all this stuff? How is it all organized?”

  He looks up from the chaos at his feet to stare me in the eye. “The system is purely chronological,” he says. “Everything is categorized by when I read it. I’m afraid I have a mind that works that way, sequential yet nonlinear at the same time.”

  I must look skeptical. He adds, “If you actually read through some of the piles, you would find that there’s something of a theme to each one, however remote. And if you read through all of them, you would see a mosaic of all my little obsessions.”

  I believe him. Why not?

  Akiko Jones lives in a small apartment up on the North Side, a little north and west of Fahey’s place, and not too far from mine. Small four-story, the buzzers don’t work, the lock on the main door is broken. As I check the mailboxes I watch two people push the door in and walk right up the stairs. I follow them in. The names are by apartment number, not by spelling. There’s a Jones in B, and no other Joneses. Beyond the main door is a stairway leading up to the right. I open the main door, walk left, go past Apartment 1, Apartment 2, then right again, and there is a door there, no number on it. I open it, no lock, and there’s a stairway leading down.

  I walk down the stairs and turn right. I walk down a long straight hallway with storage lockers on both sides, closed and cinched with Master locks. I hear a faint thumping sound. Eventually there’s a door, and the thumping is louder. There is a faint impression in the paint where a “B” used to be. I knock on the door. The thumping stops. A few seconds pass. I see her spy me through the peephole. I hold up the shield. Then I hear what must be a dozen bolts turning. She opens up a crack, the chain still on the door. A single woman, these days, you know.

  I flash the shield again, she takes a closer look, shuts the door, unhooks the chain, removes the bar, lets me in.

  She’s dressed all in black. No shoes or socks. Thin black sweatpants, sleeveless black T-shirt. Her hair is also jet-black, short. The shirt is cut off just below her ribs, and her stomach is flat, muscled. Six-pack abs, just a hint of flesh to smooth the edges. Asian eyes, those folds at the corners. You could cut cheese on her cheekbones, sharp and distinct. Her complexion is a little darker than Asian, though. On her, it looks outstanding. You’re not supposed to say this anymore, but she’s a looker.

  I scan the apartment as she relocks the door. Talk about your contrast. Unlike Worrell’s, this place is naked. It’s a studio, semi-separate kitchen on the left, open closet and closed bathroom door on the right. I know the type of place. Used to live in one, same layout as this. She has one of those futon things folded up on the floor next to the wall near the door. Looks like it doubles as a bed. There’s a small table next to it, black lacquer, with a small lamp, a black candle, and a black digital clock. Across the room is a huge set of drums in front of a pair of tiny half-windows that face an alley. She plays facing in, unlike Powell. (As for Worrell, I get the feeling he plays anywhere he happens to be sitting when some instrument leaps into his hands.) Behind the drums is a stereo, cassette deck, CD, all stacked up, expensive-looking but small. All in black, of course. I’m picking up a theme here. I get the feeling there is something missing. I look around again, cataloging things. And it strikes me. No TV. No computer. Interesting.

  The floors are wooden, with a high sheen on them. The closet is an open one, clothes hanging neatly inside. Again, mostly black, and some white. There are two baskets up on top, must be where she puts things she can’t hang up, like socks and underwear and such. Walls are a stark white, no pictures or portraits or calendars or anything. Except that one wall, behind the bed, is covered with maps, all kinds of maps, like a collage type of thing. Mostly Chicago, but some L.A., a piece of San Francisco, a slice of Boston. Glued up or taped up or something, they cover the whole wall, the only splash of color in the place. No drapes, just thin white blinds covering the ground-level half-windows. And that’s it.

  She offers me tea and I’m glad of it. It’s two blocks from where I put the unit to this place and I can still feel the late afternoon wind up the back of my neck. She gets down a black canister, puts the water on. Scoops out three spoonfuls of loose tea into one of those French coffee things that lets the beans and the water just mix together, no filter. No reason it wouldn’t work for tea, I guess. When she reaches up to put the canister away, the shirt stretches away from her, and I catch sight of her strong left obliques and the lower edge of her left breast.

  We go back to the main room while we wait for the water to boil.

  Now the question. Where to sit down. She gets the stool from behind the drum set, brings it over next to the futon, asks where I’d like to sit. Futon’s a little low. I’m worried I might not be able to get up. I take the stool. She lowers herself onto the futon, legs crossed, back straight. Those washboard abs are not just for show.

  We start with background, “Where are you from, Ms. Jones?” and like that. Turns out her father’s African American, her mother Japanese, met while he was stationed there in the army. She’s the only child. “They were…only married a short while,”
she says. Moved to Chicago, South Side, they split, she stayed with her mother, hasn’t seen her father in years, hasn’t seen her mother in years either, though she calls on her birthday and Mother’s Day and such. Doesn’t sound like she dislikes either one of them, just doesn’t need them. Gets me thinking. I look around, can’t see photographs of either of them. Of anybody, it comes to that.

  She got halfway to a degree in history at Baldwin Wallace College in Ohio, then got into the music scene and dropped out. Knew right away she wanted to play drums—“Like, my DNA has that rhythm gene going on,” she says. Plays in three different bands—two local rock bands I’ve never heard of and the jazz group. Answered an ad in the Reader, been with them almost two years. “It’s good discipline,” she says, “jazz. The rhythm is, like, more of a suggestion. It makes you listen different.” Interesting. “Plus I had never used brushes before. The first time Sidney gave me a pair, you know, he had to show me how to play them.”

  Also works as a martial arts instructor in a dojo a couple blocks away. I ask how she got into that. “I guess I just have that Japanese kung-fu thing happening,” she says. Kung-fu is Chinese, but I don’t say it.

  She is playing me. I keep my big dumb cop look on my face all the same.

  We talk about Fahey. She takes the news of his death quietly. No crying, no wailing, just a little frown. I ask, did she know he had a problem? The drugs?

  “Well, yeah, actually,” she says.

  “Since when, if I might ask.”

  “Well, he came up to me a couple of months ago during a break, said he had some friends coming to town, and asked me if I knew where he could ‘score some,’ quotation marks.”

  I let her continue, not taking notes. There are times you have to put away the pen.

  “I didn’t think he had any ‘friends coming into town,’and I really doubted he’d go that far out of his way for them, if he did. I mean, it is still illegal, right?”

  A glimmer as she says this. She is making a little joke, testing me, too.

  “Not my department, but, far as I know, yeah, it still is,” I say.

  “I told him, like, no, I didn’t know anybody like that, sorry, but he might try some of the clubs, the rock clubs. Truth is, I do know people like that. I’m not into it myself, but I didn’t want to get in the middle of it with him.”

  “Why is that? I mean, aside from it being illegal,” I ask, adding, “which again, is not my department.”

  “I didn’t want to owe Jeff anything, and I didn’t want him to owe me anything. That’s a policy of mine, in general, but with Jeff, in particular.”

  “Why him in particular?” I ask.

  She’s been talking to me without looking at me. Now she brings her dark eyes up. “There was an evil spirit about the guy. Bad mojo. Bad karma. Bad vibes. Foul humours, you know?”

  Translating for the old fart. “Foul humours” is from Shakespeare’s day. A little before even my time.

  “You’re going to ask ‘Is there anything particular you could point to that gave you that impression, Ms. Jones?’ and I’m going to say, ‘No.’ It was just something about the way he was. Very self-centered. I mean, we were in this band, he was one of the featured soloists, but it was never enough. Paul would take four choruses, Jeff would have to take six. Paul would try to mix up the repertoire to add things he thought Jeff would like, like Charlie Parker’s “Cherokee” and shit? Coltrane, Horace Silver, Monk, you know? But for Jeff, it wasn’t enough. That’s all he wanted to play. But what the band is about, it’s like the whole history of that music. He came into it late, when it already was what it was, and expected everyone to cater to him, like it was his band. He was always late, he was always a little shit to everyone, he was always overdoing it. I’m sure he had a very small dick.”

  That’s one part we never did locate, so I can’t comment. This is the most she’s said since we sat down. I hear the water start to boil. She starts to rise.

  “Before you get that,” I say, leaning forward. “He was a featured player, you played accompaniment. He played solos, and abused the, uh, privilege, and you had to learn to use brushes and stay in the background. Was there something personal there…?”

  The kettle is singing loudly. She wants to get up and get it, but forces herself to look at me, then look down, almost demurely. “That’s very perceptive. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there was some chord he struck in me that I didn’t like.”

  She is squatting on the futon, her legs crossed, and she somehow stands up without uncrossing her legs, balancing on the outer edges of her feet until she rises to her full height. I think, How does she do that? She steps into the kitchenette to get the tea, and I creak off of the stool and follow her.

  She moves the pot off the burner, turns the flame off, pours the water into the carafe where the leaves are, puts the lid on it. “It’s better if we let this sit for a minute,” she says.

  She turns, opens the fridge, looks in. From my angle I can see in, too. It’s just about empty. There’s two jugs of water, one of them half-empty, a small box of blueberries, a half-a-head of celery. In the door is some olive oil. No mustard, no ketchup, no mayo. No meat, no eggs, no cheese, no milk.

  She turns, sees me looking. “You’re asking yourself, ‘What the hell does she eat?,’ right?”

  I don’t say anything but she can tell she’s right. “Vinnie is always busting my ass about it. He calls me an ‘airitarian.’ ”

  “An airitarian?” I ask.

  “You know,” she says. “Like a vegetarian lives on vegetables, a fruitarian lives on fruit, an airitarian lives on air.” She shakes her head. “Food just…food just doesn’t do it for me, you know?”

  “Well,” I say. “I’m not a big eater myself—”

  “I bet you used to be,” she says.

  I look at her. “Why would you say that?”

  She looks me up and down, a cool appraising look. “You are a big American dude. What are you, six-four?”

  “Well, close to that, about six-three or—”

  “You look like you used to be even bigger. Not taller, of course, just bigger. Your clothes are hanging off you, even your skin…”

  “I had the clothes altered. I’ll have to tell that to the lady who did them. How can you tell?”

  She gives that look again, no eye contact. “Must be Asian thing,” she says, doing an accent. “We all supposed to be good at raundry,” she says.

  “That’s Chinese, not Japanese.”

  She turns, grabs the plunger on top of the carafe, slowly pushes it down, a little at a time, very steadily. I watch, wait, enjoy the ritual.

  She reaches up to a shelf, there’s those strong obliques again, pulls down two mugs. Black, what else. Turns back to me. “I think I might have some honey somewhere around here, or a lemon, if I—”

  “That’s OK,” I say. “Just black is good.”

  She nods, turns, fills both mugs, hands me one. We head back to the main room. I sit on the stool again, take a sip of the tea. It’s strong, and good. I look for someplace to put the mug, set it on the floor between my feet. She lowers herself back into a cross-legged position, the tea in her lap all the way. Doesn’t spill a drop. Jesus.

  “Let’s shift gears. Last Thursday at the 1812 Club, the guy who got shot, Mr. Roger Tremblay. You ever see him before?”

  “No, never.”

  “He ever sit in with the band before that?”

  “No, never.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “My reaction?” she asks. “Like, I freaked. I mean, it was so sudden, so out of place.” She looks down, then looks up at me.

  “Ms. Jones, this has all the signs of a mob hit, a mob hit gone wrong. You have any idea why anyone would want to kill anyone in the band? Any ideas at all?”

  She looks away like she’s thinking but she’s already decided to say No. Then she says it.

  “No.”

  Some people you have to circle around them gently
. Some people you go right at it. Do I know which one she is? I don’t.

  “For example, is there any reason anybody would want to kill you, Ms. Jones?”

  “No.” It is a little too quick. I let her have some room.

  “I mean, I’m just a drummer, a not-so-great drummer in a not-so-great band. Why would someone want to kill me?”

  Now she is asking me the question.

  She pauses, nods. “Like I said, I live a very quiet life, you know? Music, working out, more music, more working out. It’s all I really do.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. She has her eyes down, hidden from me. Oh, I think, we all have our little secrets. Most of them are just that, little secrets, ordinary, meaningless, of no consequence.

  But I don’t see any connection. That’s something you learn: don’t get too far ahead of the facts, don’t start following your nose because chances are you might be smelling your own breath, nothing more. After all, it’s the closest thing you can smell, and you’re too used to it to notice it.

  She drains the last dregs of her tea, gets up, asks me if I want any more. I stretch my stiff legs, stand up, say thanks but no thanks, and ask can I use her bathroom. She gestures to a door next to the closet. I head over as she walks to the little kitchenette.

  After I close the door and flip the seat up, I notice that the bathroom is as empty as the rest of the apartment. The towels are white, not black, and the shower curtain is clear plastic. Interesting. So private, so closed off, yet when she’s naked it’s all right there to see.

  I piss in the toilet, and carefully reach over to open the medicine cabinet. One small glass. A toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a hairbrush, all standing up inside it. Not a single aspirin, not a measly roll of Tums, no makeup, no moisturizer, no diaphragm or pills or rubbers. No creams, no emollients. Nothing else. What the hell kind of female keeps an empty medicine cabinet? What kind of person, it comes to that? Jesus.