Nine Fingers Read online

  He wasn’t taking much joy in it, whether I beat him or let him win. So I made some excuse to stop—I was at the tail end of “BBU” and I dropped a lit cigarette on the floor and said I had to locate it before we Both Burned Up. He got the joke, but didn’t laugh, just gave me a tight little grin, so I changed the topic and we settled up on the money that had passed so far; I was up about twenty bucks.

  As soon as I let him off the hook, he turned to look out the window and got a pensive look on his face, not sad, really, not angry or morose or troubled, really, just, like I said, pensive.

  Or maybe he was trying to pass some gas; sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.

  We went out to the West Side, past Greek Town, another quick in-and-out, then downtown, a little longer stop. When he came out he was checking his watch.

  He hopped back in, shivering from the cold, and reached into his coat pocket, took out a flask and took a long pull on it. I made like I didn’t notice, and in a few seconds I got a whiff of Scotch. He screwed the cap back on, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, showing a crack of what lay underneath his thin veneer of class, but then he saw me seeing him.

  “Care for a little spot, a wee taste, a morning eye-opener?” he asked.

  “Little early for me,” I said, “and I’m kind of ‘on duty’ here. The cops don’t like drunken cabdrivers.”

  “Cops?” he said, looking around.

  “Just speaking hypothetically,” I said. “But you go ahead; after all, you’re not driving.”

  He nodded, looked at the flask, took another swallow and tucked it away. He reached into an outside pocket and fished out a roll of mints, popped one and commenced to suck away, looking out the window.

  It took him close to a minute to realize that we were parked at the curb, not going anywhere. I let him take his time—I get paid whether we’re moving or not—and I had a sense I didn’t want to spook him.

  He finally roused himself and called out an address out on the West Side again, south of Midway Airport, on Cicero. The way he said it was very precise, every syllable standing on its own, all alone. I drove up to the light at the corner, stopped for the red, and flipped the directional on; the Expressway was only two blocks away.

  He immediately looked up and said, “Back streets, if you please, Vincent, back streets.” He glanced at his watch again. “This next appointment is a scheduled one, and we have plenty of time.”

  I nodded, flipped the turn signal off, and headed straight through the intersection. It was mid-morning, traffic was light, and within about twenty minutes we were getting close to the address. As we did he leaned closer, put his hands up on the back of the front seat, and said in an almost conspiratorial whisper, “I’m afraid I’ll be having some company at this appointment, a gentleman I have met only once, and who, frankly, I had no desire to meet again. But the vicissitudes of this business…This gentleman is someone who is extremely, uh, reticent, very private in his dealings, and it might be better for you and also for me if you parked around the corner and let me walk over from there.”

  As he said this his eyes were darting all over the place, even though we were still more than a mile away. Before I knew it, his hypervigilant state started to infect me. I noticed myself slowing imperceptibly, eyeballing every parked car, checking every pedestrian. I didn’t want him to see me doing this, so I took a breath and locked my head facing straight ahead. But my eyes were doing the lateral tango.

  And I blew it totally. I totally lost track of the blocks and instead of pulling over one block before the address I drove right by it—shit! I tried to act nonchalant about it and pulled around the corner after our stop, and even though my eyes were focused front, I saw somebody, a door or two down from the storefront we were aiming for, leaning up against the building. Middle-aged, middle-sized, nondescript, dressed in gray, an average face with a big Fu Manchu—and maybe it wasn’t even him, hell, I had no fucking idea, just that there was a man standing near a building where we were supposed to meet someone.

  I was panicking inside but tried to cover it by playing dumb on the outside. I cranked the wheel to the right, pulled over in a no-parking zone, and popped the locks. I put a stupid grin on my face, half-turned and asked, “Will this be close enough, sir?”

  The Accountant didn’t make one of his wise-ass remarks, didn’t even nod. His face had turned red, his jaw was set, and he flat-out glared at me for a second before pulling his eyes away. Shit. Then he grabbed his briefcase, opened the door, slid out, and slammed it shut.

  I hunkered down in the cab and waited, going through the old coulda-woulda-shoulda. My armpits were sweating and my hands were cold. This was a nice weekly gig, good money, good times, and I didn’t want to blow it. But more than that, whatever he did on our little forays, the Accountant was a good guy, a fop and a jerk, but still a good guy. He had never stiffed me, never said a nasty word, never treated me like the help. I had a sense that I might have gotten him in some kind of trouble, and that was twisting me around inside.

  I tried to sit still.

  I checked my watch: five minutes had passed, much longer than his stops usually took. There was nothing I could do but wait; if I moved and he came out looking for me and I wasn’t there, it’d be worse. If I got out of the car and walked around to stretch, it’d look like I was spying on him. Shit.

  I looked at my watch again: ten minutes gone. My mind started to race with the possibilities. Calm down, Vince, I told myself, the guy’s probably just there for show. We’re not talking Al Capone here, not talking big-time drug dealers; there’s no briefcase in the world big enough to hold that kind of money. Besides, I didn’t even know if any money was involved at all. I had no evidence, no proof, not a single scrap of facts to go on. This whole scenario about mob activity or collections or whatever was all in my head. Let it go, I told myself. All the weed is making you paranoid.

  My injured hand started to ache, deep under the cast where I couldn’t rub the pain away.

  And all of a sudden there he was, stepping in through the back door, his briefcase under his arm. He slid in very slowly, very carefully, like a much older man. His right hand was cupping his balls. He reached across with the left to close the door, still keeping the jewels under cover, reached into his right breast pocket with his left, took out the flask. His face looked ashen. He held the flask between his knees and unscrewed the cap, brought the flask to his mouth and took a long drink. Not a sip; I’m talking a couple of swallows—you could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He kept drinking until it was maybe halfway empty, then brought it down into his lap again, the cap still off. He was breathing hard.

  I wanted to say something, but what the fuck could I say without betraying some knowledge or suspicion of what he was up to, of what our little journeys were all about? I didn’t want him to think I knew anything, I didn’t want him to think I had seen the guy—I hadn’t, well, not much, anyway. What the fuck was I supposed to say?

  We just sat there, with the motor running and my brain racing.

  Finally, I glanced in the rearview mirror, raised my eyebrows a notch, and said, “Everything OK, sir? Anything I can do?”

  He kept looking out the window. Finally, he slowly turned until he was facing front, stretched his neck, and in a low voice said, “Mission accomplished. Let’s head home, shall we?”

  So we did.

  Neither one of us said a word on the way back. I wanted to apologize for getting him in trouble, but that would have acknowledged he had gotten in trouble. I mean, what are you going to say? “Are your balls all right? Did he punch them or kick them or squeeze them?” I kept thinking of things to say, then editing them and saying nothing, feeling the silences like weights.

  Every now and then he’d raise the flask up to his mouth and take a little sip, staring out the window. The color slowly came back into his face. As we hit downtown he took the last pull on the Scotch—the aroma was unmistakable by that point—found the cap, screwed i
t back on, tucked it away in his pocket. He took his hand away from his balls, stretched his legs, stretched his back. His face had regained some color; his posture had loosened.

  He remembered the briefcase, which had slid off his lap and onto the seat next to him. He pulled it back onto his lap, patted it reassuringly. He took off his hat, set it on his lap, and reached into his pocket for a comb. He raked it over his head two, three, four strokes, slipped it back into his pocket, and carefully set his hat back on his head, just so. And just like that the mask of his persona slipped back into place. He glanced at me in the rearview once, then twice.

  Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, we pulled up to where we meet, down the block from the Drake. Wrapping his scarf and coat tightly around himself, he looked at the meter, pulled two fifties and two twenties and a ten out of his pocket, and handed them forward. Then he added the twenty he owed me from our game, and fifty more.

  “Somehow,” I said, despite myself, “I get the feeling that you shouldn’t be tipping me today. I know it’s none of my business, but—”

  “Ah, Vincent,” he said, a wistful tone in his voice, “you have performed admirably, as you always do, and I wouldn’t think of committing a failure of remuneration.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but he waved me off. He paused before he spoke.

  “Hush hush, now. There are some days that are better than other days, but every day is better than no days at all.” He paused again. His voice was small, distant. “Our lives, dear boy, are fraught with…challenges, some great, some small. I have mine, you have yours, and it is better for us both not to compare our struggles. But, whatever they may be, my lad, they all pass away. Over time. They all pass away.”

  I turned and looked at him, and we had a second of eye contact.

  “Take care of yourself, sir,” I said.

  “I always try, Vincent. I always try. And you take care, too. Watch that hand!”

  With that he opened the door, and leaned forward, testing himself to see if he could move all right. He slid out and walked around to my window. I opened it and looked up at him.

  “Same time next week, my boy?”

  I nodded, expectantly.

  As he walked away I knew that I had done something; I just had no idea what it was.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Cleaner

  The Meet; Near North Side

  Tuesday, January 21

  11:14 A.M.: Here they are. Cadillac stretch. Black. Car pulls up, almost goes past me. Pulls over. Backs up. Right rear door swings open.

  It is the both of them. The Old Man on the left, the Nephew in the jump seat. The Old Man smiles. Leans forward. Reaches over to shake my hand. The Nephew elbows him aside. Has something in his hand. Metal detector. Wand thing like they use at the airport. Scans me. Up and down. “Sorry,” says the Old Man. “You know how it is.”

  The Nephew motions to me. I scooch forward, raise my arms up to the divider. He gives me a pat down. Up and down. The groin. Around the back. The ankles. A halfway decent job.

  Turns to his uncle. “Looks clean.”

  “What do you expect?” the Old Man says. “This is the last person who would hurt us.”

  “Still,” I say, “cannot be too careful.” Saving face for him.

  Zep? Still has that spark in his eye. Tanned, trimmed, well-dressed. The Nephew looks like hell. Bags under the eyes. Skin all blotchy.

  Old Man looks me over. “You’re looking good, my friend,” he says. “But I don’t remember the mustache. I don’t know if it becomes you.”

  Turn toward him. Pick up the corner of the mustache.

  “Hah!” he laughs. “It’s fake! Talk about security, this man wears a disguise to see his oldest friend in the world!”

  “You, I know,” I say. “Mr. Chase, I know. The driver up there, I do not know.”

  The drivers are the lowest of the low. Trade you to the cops for a pack of smokes. Zep raps his knuckles on the privacy shield, three times. The car moves out into traffic.

  I take a chance. “How sure are we? Our information?”

  The Nephew glares at me. “We got this from a reliable source, a very fucking reliable source. A friend of ours from Detroit was in town. I can’t imagine he could get it wrong.”

  We sit in silence for a minute.

  “So,” the Nephew says, “we contract for a hit, something goes wrong, we need to know what the fuck happened. There needs to be accountability, you know what I’m fucking saying?”

  Look over at the Old Man. He gives a tiny nod.

  “My instructions: shoot the black one in the back row, near the window.”

  I look up. They nod. I did not misunderstand.

  “Walk by. Scope it out. Two black ones in the back row. Check again. The drummer, she is female and more like Asian. Piano player is black. He gets it. Later I hear he is not the one.”

  “Some civilian,” the Old Man says. “Some conventioneer, a lawyer, I heard.”

  “Then we bring in the reinforcements,” I say. “Ask me, lead them to a source of information. I lead them to a source, safe place. Good setup.”

  “Couple of stupid shits,” the Old Man says. “You look up the word ‘stupid’ in the dictionary, their mug shots are in there. Not our best caliber. But hey, you did your job.”

  “We don’t know if they fucked up,” Chase adds. “We don’t know that for certain. We’re not exactly sure what situation developed, what they got—”

  “What they got? One got a bullet in the head, the other got a train out of town,” Zep says.

  “So, was it the woman?” I cut in. “The Afro-Asian woman?”

  “Are you sure she’s Asian? Are you fucking positive?” Chase grills me.

  “Name is Akiko Jones,” I say.

  “Hey, those people will name their kids anything: Douchebag Johnson, Gonorrhea Smiff, what do they know?” the Nephew says.

  “Looked her up. Martial arts instructor—”

  “That doesn’t mean dick. I studied martial arts myself. Aikido, karate, judo, I—”

  “Father is African American, in the army, overseas, a quartermaster,” I continue. “Mother is Japanese,” I say. I have to wait for a second.

  “Is she the one?” I ask. “Did the backups get anything?”

  “Look,” the Nephew says. His tone changes. “We are not prepared to fucking say at this time. And it’s not your fucking business anyway, is it?”

  There is a moment of silence. The Nephew is breathing hard, working himself up.

  “Then you have to go whack the other one, the saxophone player. What’s the deal with that? He’s not in the back row, he’s not black. He’s not ‘Afro-Asian.’ He can’t be the one—”

  “It was not him,” I start.

  “Of course it wasn’t him. He doesn’t match anything about the description. Not a fucking thing. Who the fuck told you to go and whack him? I’ll tell you who. Nobody!”

  “I did not charge you for that one. That was no charge.”

  “No charge? No fucking charge? Do you hear what I’m hearing!”

  The pain is a five now. Turning from dull to sharp. I try to breathe.

  “It won’t be tied to us,” the Old Man cuts in. “The cops have got nothing, nothing at all.”

  “That’s what you say,” the Nephew says.

  “No,” the Old Man says, “that’s what the cops say.” Gives the Nephew his cold hard stare. The one he’s been saving up. “You know our source at State Street. Our source is unimpeachable. He says they got nothing, they got nothing.”

  Shuts the Nephew up.

  “Why don’t you run it down for us? Give us a sense of the players.”

  “Powell: trumpet player. He is black, but he stands in the front row. He is the leader. Serious, quiet. Does nothing but the music. Fahey: White, not black, and up front, not in back, saxophones. Worrell: He’s white, sits in back, plays bass. Professor, down at the U. of C. Amatucci: Italian American, from New York. Sat i
n back, at the piano, but not that night. Does not seem shook up by it. Still driving a cab, broad daylight. Works for the Fat Man—”

  “The Fat Man?” Zep asks. “Marcus Hanson?” His eyebrows are raised.

  “Yeah, what—”

  “Nothing,” he says.

  I look at him sideways. He knows things that he cannot tell me how he knows them.

  “Jones: drummer. She is Afro-Asian. Sits in the back. With the drums. Looks mostly Asian, short straight hair. Teaches at some martial arts place. She is female. Landreau: white, maybe forty-something. Shows up in town after the first hit,” I say. “My source says he knows Powell. Supposed to play very good.”

  “What is this, some music review in the fucking Tribune?” the Nephew says. “ ‘Supposed to play very good.’What does that have to do with anything?”

  “A lot older, he…Plane gets forced down in a storm. Got here too late.”

  The Old Man leans forward. “One more for you to look out for.”

  We both turn his way. He always likes this part of it.

  “Ridlin, Ken. White male, early fifties, six-three, thin. Really thin.” Looks at me, eyebrows arching, waiting. “Remember him?”

  “The Riddler,” I say.

  “One and the same,” the Old Man says. Has a little grin on his face.

  “ ‘The Riddler’?” the Nephew asks. “What the fuck is this? Did I just walk into a fucking Batman movie? The Riddler? How come you never told me about—”

  “Just happened,” the Old Man says. “The cops just put him onto it.”

  “Been thinking he is out of it,” I say. “Since that time…”

  “He was,” the Old Man says. “Way out of it. A couple of years ago, he gets back in. The cops send him to Siberia. He works his way back up, now he’s back in Homicide.”

  “Ridlin,” I say.

  “Who the fuck is Ridlin?” the Nephew asks. “You going to fucking clue me in?”

  “Like I said,” the Old Man says, “I just got the word, from our guy downtown. Ridlin goes way back. We had some, uh, dealings with him, back when you were still in diapers. This guy, he had it out with your father, once upon a time. Frank, well, Frank held his own. Like always. But Ridlin? A straight arrow, old school. They just put him on it, inside.”