“Can you smell smoke?”
He could not and she worried she was imagining something. In fact, it was not quite smoke per se and she worried she was imagining something horrifying.
“There it is again.”
“I smell it,” he said, and looked around as best he could to see the cause, but not a person was in sight… the road was narrow here and coming to a curve. Smatterings of trees and scrub had given way to crops and large families of woods and farmers and now it was clear a settlement was at hand. The view was not the eternal horizon they’d known for hours and it troubled them both. The curved ended and as it did a crowd came into sight, and at this moment Watson jarred awake.
“That sound!” He hissed.
Kristian and Mrs Hatfield too had become aware of it; a kind of drone somehow both angry and jubilant, crying voices blurred by stamping feet and something snapping, breaking, crashing glass…
Watson gripped the door with one hand and the underside of the bench seat with the other, bolt upright and clenching his teeth.
“We need to get out of here,” he said, but already it had noticed them – and started to slither unpredictably.
Kristian saw it and pointed with a single hand but without a word, Mrs Hatfield looked and covered her mouth but could not bring herself to close her eyes.
A form barely recognisable as human – naked, battered and seeping – hung from a lamp post. Even from a distance they saw the chain bruises and rips marking its legs and arms, saw the strange new indentations in its chest where no indentation should have been, its jaw sagged and eyes missing.
“We can turn around,” she said but without conviction.
Kristian tore off his helmet and handed it to Mrs Hatfield.
“Hold on to Mr Rosti,” he said, “And you just get down as low as you can Mr Watson.”
The old man found his way lower than the dash and braced, the woman gripped onto Rosti as he still miraculously slept. She looked small with the helmet on, younger somehow - Kristian thought but did not think; only barely registering the notion in a flash of a second. He pushed, but did not slam down, the accelerator; the motorcar threatened to shake itself apart as it hurtled into full speed and toward the mob. He wondered if they’d seen Watson, if he’d ever had the option of simply driving past; but he knew he’d never had that option and never wanted it. Without his helmet he seemed possessed – his eyes grey and burning behind the glass, his hair a thick dark shock feral in the wind, his teeth together hard, setting his jaw and giving his fury resolution.
At first the mob was too dumb and drunk on their victory and blood rite to understand what was coming, but at the final moment the screams began as Kristian smashed into the dumbest and drunkest few – sending them sprawling broken and others running in stunned animal terror. Mrs Hatfield now closed her eyes, Watson prayed and Rosti’s own eyes flew open but the woman held him tightly. It was over fast – ‘small town’ Kristian thought as they fled the gaping wound in one end of the crowd and hurtled via another bend out through the same genre of poor woods and poorer crops they’d passed on the way in.
Watson sat up only when they’d threaded a covered bridge. They’d put ten miles between them and the town while the hurtling Chevrolet was still only a nightmare (and not yet real) for the wretched bastards they’d left in their wake.
Rosti was very much awake but said nothing – joining the other three in their silence.
Mrs Hatfield noticed the blood on the engine hood and stared at Kristian. She held his helmet in her hand and he had not asked for it back.
“What if they died?” She asked quietly.
He turned to face her then looked back to his road.
“My only regret would be that there is no hell waiting for them.”
* * *
Rida’s son Fernando had never been particularly fond of his first name and introduced himself by his last name; Hammett. His friends, male and female alike, called him Hammett, as did his teachers, even out of class. He signed off letters and essays with F. Hammett, avoiding questions about his middle names. To his older sister and his mother he was Nando, an altogether too fruity appellation for his purposes – which involved meeting girls and avoiding trouble.
Now fifteen – his mother’s record store was an almost indescribable blessing to him. He stood by the counter grinning at her. It was just before four in the afternoon on a Thursday, and he had no intention of being there that time the next day.
“Ma. You know that new Bill Broonzy record?”
She looked at him.
“I got in a dozen of them Monday morning and I’ve got one left – so sure, I’ve noticed it.”
He chuckled.
“Have you got a new order coming in next Monday?”
“No – but I’ve got a big order coming in on Wednesday; with a dozen Broonzys in amongst ‘em. Who’d a thought a bluesman would do so well here, huh?”
“Well it’s not like there’s a shortage of coloured people in this city. Have you ever noticed how good they are at music? I mean, rag time, blues, jazz – it was all invented by them.”
She set down her file and turned to him.
“Nando – three things; Yes, I’ve noticed – I run a record store. And it’s not just coloured folk who buy blues records. And, most importantly – I don’t like this ‘they’ and ‘them’. It’s not like coloured folk are a different species of people. They’re folk like us, and they happen to be a different colour.”
“And better at music, that is all I’m saying.”
“Well I want you to remember it’s not us and them – even when you’re saying something nice.”
“What should I say then? You call th… ah, you said ‘coloured folk’ yourself.”
“Well, I don’t know to be perfectly frank. Maybe say ‘coloured folk have made a great contribution to music’ rather than ‘they are good at music’. See the difference?”
Nando considered this but it was Hammett who answered.
“Yes. The first form states that certain members – a noticeable number of members - of a community have done well in a particular field. The second form states that all members of a certain community have a characteristic talent for something and also, albeit inadvertently, stresses their difference from other communities.”
Rida gazed at him and smiled warmly. He looked different as he gave the answer – he grew in stature, merely an illusion, but she saw the man he would become; the educated young man – the genetic product of his parents but environmentally their better, in her unashamed view. She remembered him reading the newspaper every day as a little boy with a dictionary beside him, voraciously expanding his command of the language. She remembered his fascination with capitals, countries and states – his interest always in not simply what a picture looked like but why it looked that way; in what was behind it all.
“Well, the record – I was hoping to, ah, borrow it.”
Rida raised an eyebrow.
“Well it’s brand new… Nando; you know I can’t lend it to you and then sell it. Tell me though; what is the situation?”
He blushed, something she found strange and new on him.
“I was telling a friend of mine about him. They’d never heard of him so I thought I’d play it for them tomorrow.”
“Where? At school?”
“At their parents place.”
“They, them, their… don’t you mean she, her, her?”
“Uh, yes.”
Rida smiled.
“Is she a good girl? And I mean good, nice is too much to hope for.”
“Oh Jeez ma come on.”
He walked over to the small blues section and found the Broonzy, carefully extracting it from the sleeve.
“Red shellac – wow. Why don’t all the record companies use red shellac?”
“Expenses. And, did you know the best black lasts just as long as red? Same qual
ity of sound too – but that’s only the very best black. Generally red is the best, but most companies use black. It’s cheaper and maybe they figure by the time the record’s worn out the owner’s tastes may have changed.”
Nando turned it over, letting it catch the light. He was lead clarinet in the school band but Rida always made sure his hard studies came first.
“One day I’ll live in Paris,” he said, staring at the record as though speaking to it.
“Are you kidding? You’re too good for Paris. It’s all right here in your home city so save yourself the time – you were lucky enough to be born here, otherwise going to Paris might be worth your while. And there’s going to be a war in Europe.” She seemed almost grateful as she uttered these last words; Rida was a great appreciator of music, but the notion of her son crossing the Atlantic to pursue it horrified her. “Besides – these guys are mostly from Memphis and moved to Chicago. You’re not going to move to Memphis or Chicago are you?”
He looked up from the red shellac and grinned.
“Tell you what ma. I’ll give you half the price now and half the price tomorrow.”
She walked over to him.
“Just give me nothing today and take it, then pay half the price tomorrow when you get paid. You get a family discount.”
Nando beamed.
“She’s got a great record player; an RCA U-115. It will sound fantastic.”
“That model has just come out. Where does she live?”
He paused. “On the upper west side.”
Rida paused. “You kidding?”
“No.”
“Wow. How close to the park?”
“Um, a couple of blocks.”
“Wow again. Have you met her parents before?”
“No.”
“Do they know about you?”
“What about me? That I exist?”
“Well they’ll know that shortly. I mean, that you live here, in this part of town.”
Nando stopped smiling and looked at her.
“You mean, do they know about you? Well I’m not going to walk in and say ‘How do you do, my mother’s a spic’, but if they ask me questions I’m going not going to tell any lies.”
“A spic,” she laughed. “I guess they haven’t invented the right word for my kind of mix yet, but spic will do nicely. And being a spic is more than genealogy you know – to those kind of people it’s about where you live and how you live. That clarinet of yours helped get you into that fancy school, but it doesn’t make you fancy. But don’t worry, Mister Hammett, you got a few things from me but not your looks – and your diction and poise would be the envy of any finishing school graduate.”
“What the hell is finishing school?”
“You’ll want to work on your language young man! Well, they’ll think my name is Rita anyway – and if they ever ask where I’m from, you can tell them I’m New York State born and bred, because it’s true.”
“Ma, you need to relax.”
Nando didn’t tell her that the girl’s parents were out of town on business and would and could never meet him. They occupied a place in the social stratosphere where the air was too thin for Nando to survive for long
Every moment with this girl, Victoria was her name – for the record, was just that; a moment. The series of moments would be beautiful in their own way, he knew, already, unconsciously, (though beautiful is a grand word for fifteen year olds), but would end inevitably – and then remain perfect and timeless; without the flaws of tension, jealousy, resentment, boredom, regret and old age. When something is halted yet unrealised, frozen at a certain moment in time – it remains forever as it was, though it also remains nothing at all.
Of this Nando said nothing; he just smiled gratefully before taking the stairs two at a time with the record under his arm and his schoolbag slung over his shoulder.
* * *
Comely had showed up just after dark with five tickets to the movie house, soda and popcorn money and an odd expression on his face. Arturo thought the look did not suit him and certainly did not recognise it. Surprised by both things, Arturo had been left temporarily without the wherewithal to refuse the gift and before he knew it his siblings and he were sitting in a line in the dark, excitedly clasping paper buckets of hot buttered popcorn and watching the usherettes flashing about. They’d only been to the movies once before and Comely had walked them to the nearest cinema. Even before the newsreel they were almost shaking with glee, Arturo’s older sister smiling at him and crunching away.
Four shadows slipped down one side of Arturo’s street in single file, close to the wall most obscured. Their steps were light as they’d learned from the best and anyone more than twenty yards away wouldn’t not have heard them.
Comely wondered if he was over reacting. Too late to stop it now, he thought. Too late to stop any of it.
Arturo’s brow furrowed at the scenes of Hitler and his little fists clenched at the sight of Mussolini; he caught most of what the announcer said and thought the man strangely cheerful (as though calling a boxing match from the safely outside the ring). Soon though it was the cartoon and he allowed himself to relax again.
Three of the shadows slipped up the fire escape two buildings down from their target and the fourth, bigger than the others, moved along as before. Soon it was crouched behind a ledge not far from Arturo’s own tenement. Wolinski, Hudson and Roderick crouched similarly by the roof door – Wolinski getting through the lock with alarming ease while Hudson oiled the hinges. Before long they were on the top floor cloaked in darkness and awaiting their cue.
The fourth shadow pulled a baseball from his pocket and launched it through the only window in which a glimmer of light could be detected. Within moments the front door opened and a man in brown emerged brandishing a pistol – swinging it one way then the other and surveying the seemingly empty street. The fourth shadow knew they had the right place now, was one hundred per cent certain; and the goon didn’t see a damn thing coming. With his long barrelled colt jammed into a folded pillow, Davies aimed unseen and put the first slug through the middle of Hoss’ chest, quickly adding two more, sending him into the wall then face down into the street before he could even squeezes the trigger by reflex. Davies moved fast, kicking the pistol into a storm drain then dragging Hoss away from the front door and around the side of the building. The front door was still gaping open – a necessary risk – but he was fast, and was through it in no time. A single hall, dimly lit, bisected the ground floor and ended in the shrouded suggestion of a stairwell in the rear. Davies looked into the first room on the right, with its open door, and saw a table covered in broken glass, some paperwork and a couch. ‘Just an office’, he thought, ‘where’s reception?’ He saw small light hanging over a door ahead – a cheap fitting dangling with coloured glass beads. He could hear a gramophone blaring from the room – such luck, he thought. Davies peered through the watch holes of the closed door on the left and saw no signs of life.
Comely was on the roof of his own building – which he’d inspected when he first moved in and never since – smoking a cigarette and looking to the south east. The sounds of the city filled his ears and he tried to focus on one of them so as to find a more effective diversion. He failed.
Arturo and his siblings held each other’s hands and whispered to one another. His eldest sister watched the lips closely and tapped Arturo when she missed something and he’d do his best to bridge the gap.
Roderick, Wolinski and Hudson moved through the second floor in a silent sweep. Roderick peered through the first watch-hole and eased the door open. He found a girl, eighteen at most, reading a magazine. He drew one finger to his lips for her to stay quiet, then motioned with a flat hand down for her to take cover. She nodded and got under a table. ‘Probably thinks I’m a policeman,’ he mused and moved forward. They were lucky there were no tricks on the top floor… the rest of the rooms were empty. ‘She must have just fin
ished a few minutes ago,’ he thought. ‘She would have been down the stairs shortly and we could have had trouble.’ The trio were soon on the second floor. Wolinski was in the lead. ‘Receptions are usually on the ground floor at the front, but I think this place is different’, he’d told the boss earlier. ‘They’re running hammer too. That changes everything, especially in terms of official sympathy.’ Wolinski figured they took bribes and tricks through the back and ran deliveries out the front. He knew their luck wouldn’t hold out on the first floor and they came down the stairs quick, fanning out to hit a room each they were through the door with a kick and pistol-whipped the tricks, leaving the girls screaming as they positioned themselves in the stairwell between ground and first. Those in the ‘waiting room’ didn’t come like heroes running when they heard the screams, just jumped down behind a sofa.
Davies watched the first two hoods emerge from reception and make for the stairwell and slugged them both in the back. This time the pillow caught fire and he threw it to the ground and stamped it out. The girls were screaming and the music still loud so he wasn’t sure who else was left. His colleagues appeared in the stairwell and looked at the bodies. Hudson smiled a cold smile of appreciation and peered through the office door, pulling a single blade out and slipping in – followed by the other three. Inside, an unusually fat woman sat crammed behind a counter. She opened her cavernous mouth to scream and Hudson crammed his woollen hat into it. She let out a muffled protest – more annoyed than terrified now; realising they had no intention of killing her.