Crime & Counterpoint (2 page)

Part I

Diminuendo in Blue

He looked like hell had just spit him out. The demoralized leather jacket, the piercing, fractured blue eyes. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be anywhere but dead.

Then again, in a way, he already was. Dead.

From a vent of opaque steam, this same hulking bear emerged, stalking through the bowels of Chinatown. The pervasive display of colorful banners, bright store fronts, and blinding neons crawled under his skin, antagonizing his darker nature. Manhattan’s sunset hid behind dull buildings zig-zagged with fire escapes. Only a narrow strip of pinkish sky cloudy with suspicion hinted at the glory concealed.

A newly-arrived cold breeze grazed his dark, end-of-day stubble and slipped down the front of his black T-shirt. He tried to ignore the chilling change of seasons – actually, just the change; it caused an oblique ache inside his chest and reminded him of days best forgotten. But he couldn’t forget. Guilt had a way of etching itself into marrow such that no amount of forgiveness or time could ever resurface the matrix.

Sleep had become punishment. Dreams were his personal torture chamber. Distraction was his only God-given reprieve.

And today’s was a good one.

Turning left, Zach arrived at a stained, brick edifice which was definitely not up to code. But he stepped up to the grimy entrance anyway. Irritated, he ducked to avoid a low canopy with bold red hanzi and grabbed hold of the tarnished brass knob.

The hinges screamed like a banshee as the door opened and closed behind him. He’d seen his prey enter here just a minute ago – a sandy-haired frog whose wires had crossed two years ago, morphing him from normal husband, father, and French professor at Pace University to socially-functioning serial rapist and murderer. Ordinarily, Zach didn’t pursue these lone-wolf criminals, but there was a very good chance this one was affiliated with the Brother’s Circle. And as with everything, there had to be an end.

Inside, the décor was garish; the air too thick with the smoke of joss sticks to be exotic. He dominated the small, carpeted foyer with its cheap Asian artwork and brassy Buddhas seated behind the glass counter. Perched upon a stool, a woman who wasn’t of the Orient appraised him with a licentious smile. A scarlet kimono feathered most of her except for the good bit of leg she insisted on flaunting; chopsticks projected like twigs from her nest of hair.

She hopped off and came to greet Zach with curious appreciation in her green eyes. Her red lips parted to speak, but he beat her to it.

“The man who just came in,” he intoned in a brusque tenor. “Which room did you put him?”

“I’m sorry,” she cooed with a suppressed Slavic accent. “We don’t give out that kind of information.”

Displeased, Zach flashed the Glock 19 inside his jacket.

She drew back, smile fading like lights on a dimmer. The flirtatiousness evacuated her voice as she caved and pointed behind her. “He’s in room three.”

Wasting no more time, he stamped past the counter and down a short hall to the satin, gaudy-as-hell curtain at the end. Flinging it aside, he disappeared.

Without the mask of burning incense, the distinct reek of sweat, sex, and cigarette smoke saturated the open parlor. Globe lights leered hazily as if they’d been perverted beyond redemption, illuminating a faded Oriental rug caked with dirt and boot prints. Out of a patch in the stained satin wallpaper, a cluster of multi-colored cords dangled. But it was the mounted bass on the left side of the room which grabbed his attention. It gaped at the lewd artistry like a drugged fool. He tensed at the sight of the dead fish but continued into the adjoining, narrow hallway.

As he walked, muffled, lurid sounds penetrated the thin walls and doors.

He located the room with a stenciled imprint of a three on it. Just as he placed his hand on the tarnished doorknob, he heard a woman’s screams peel through the warped wood.

Quickly, he flung open the door and took in the scene with a calculated sweep. A nude, underaged girl swathed with a shoddy white sheet. The Professor pressing a knife into her throat, still taking his pleasure. Blood squirting from an already-severed vein.

Zach recoiled. His ire rose to the surface.

The Professor’s head spun towards Zach. Bloodshot eyes plugged deep in fleshy sockets lit with fear. Just in time, he managed to scramble off the bed and out of reach. Sobering quickly, he gained his footing and brandished the glinting, dripping-red knife.

The woman screeched, blood spurting from her throat.

The Professor’s swagger vanished when some glimmer of recognition entered his feverish face.

Zach lunged forward. His left hand shot out and gripped the man’s knife arm, pushing it up high and back. The man let out a strangled cry of pain but didn’t let go of the knife. Operating on pure instinct, Zach gripped the man’s meaty wrist, cranked it downward, and twisted.

Crack!

He bellowed as the knife dropped.

Zach kneed the man’s beer-filled gut, and then for good measure, landed another blow to his fleshy face, catching his cheek bone and digging into his jowls.

The man dropped to the ground.

But then, from behind: “Hey, what the hell–?!”

Zach stooped and swiped up the knife just as –

BANG!

A shot sailed over his head and shattered the dirty window. The sound of the street blared as a zealous fall breeze swept in. Two more shots came in rapid succession, pelting into the drywall around the broken window and spurting bits of white dust and splintering wood.

Zach whipped around and threw the knife, feeling it slice through the bawdy atmosphere. It stuck hard in the man’s gun arm.

The man in the doorway dropped the gun, clutching his bleeding arm like a dying lover. His face contorted in pain and rage. Zach’s remained serene, cold, and calculating.

Another body streaked past the open door. Zach noticed but let him pass. He heard the runner calling out in a language he didn’t understand but recognized. Russian. Doors flung open along the narrow corridor. More commotion ensued. More people running. Ladies in red. Men with guilt burned onto their sweaty faces. Screaming, gasps, shouting.

Oh, God
.

Unholy wrath boiled up in him. He drew his fist back and put the man blocking the doorway out of his misery with one vicious blow.
Thud
.

Zach exhaled, bringing himself back to neutral, regulating his breathing. Taking out his cell, he placed a call. Chaos serenaded the background as he gave the operator his creds, a brief account of what happened, and what he needed. Then, he hung up and knelt to cuff the motionless killer.

He glanced at the girl. She was silent now, eyes wide in sheer terror; knuckles white as she gripped the sheets. She still leaked bright red blood, and it was soaking her and the bed.

His gut twisted. The sight was grotesque and yet it tugged at the small part of him that could still care. Spying a robe, he went and grabbed it, handing it to the strawberry blonde.

“Put this on. Paramedics will be in to check on you.” He gestured to her neck. “Don’t worry,” he made himself say, attempting to sound like the civil servant he was supposed to be. “You’ll be fine. Sit up and apply pressure if you can.”

She took the robe, tears now streaming down her face along with black ribbons of mascara.

Zach turned away while she donned the scarlet covering. He heard her say ‘thank you’, though the words were choked, foreign sounding, and full of hoarse fear. He didn’t reply.

Siren
s wailed, and he took his cue.

Shelley closed her eyes and waited for the kiss. And then…

Her cue.

She lifted her hands and settled them upon the cool ebony and ivory with the familiarity of an old lover. And as the wedding officiant announced Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so for the “first time ever” to the cathedral crowd of a thousand, she began the sorely repugnant triplet, march-like fanfare – repugnant to her at least.

The newly-weds glided down the red carpet runner, smiling, beaming like children hopped up on sugar, while she serenaded their promenade with half a heart, thinking over the dozen things she had to do this weekend. She didn’t bother reading the slightly-faded black dots on the eggshell white pages; it was only there just in case her cerebellum had another major insurgence and her hands suddenly forgot their choreographed dance.

Out of her periphery, she saw the moment the bridesmaids and groomsmen reached the end of the road, and wrapping up the last chorus of Wagner’s Wedding March, she brought the final measures to a retardando finish injecting synthetic vitality despite the taste of sawdust in her mouth.

And here came the father of the bridegroom now. Up the carpeted steps, towards her and the Baldwin grand. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Hand extended.

Rising gracefully, Shelley beamed as the man approached her – lanky, worn professional, slightly stooped from hours at a desk,
but hey, he’s got kind eyes, and he’s a client of Daddy’s so be nice
.

“Shelley, it was a pleasure having you play.” Firm grip. Pump, pump, pump.

“The pleasure was mine, sir,” she replied with forcibly dilated eyes. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”

The man grinned. “Yes. Especially since I didn’t have to pay for it.”

She gave a polite chuckle which had just the right amount of feigned genuineness as he finally gave her back her hand. Still mirthful, he reached for his wallet, and she looked away because mother had always said it’s rude to eye a man’s wallet and worse still to be given money straight from it like a cheap harlot. But that was mother, not her. And she had no problem taking money from men.

The wallet, however… She still couldn’t look at it.

“This is my” – he started pulling out bills in the fifties – “one job for today. My wife said if I failed, I would be in big trouble later.” He folded several greenbacks and then handed them to her with another 200-watt smile.

She returned her focus to him just in time to take the cash. Felt like a good hundred more than her standard fee. God, he must be really glad to be rid of his son. “Oh thank you so much.”

“No, no, thank
you
. I’m just wondering with you playing for all the top guns in Manhattan, who’s your dad gonna get when it’s time for him to give you away?”

Her face paled.
Joke, Shelley. Joke. Say something!
“I don’t know,” she blurted with a forced smile. “Maybe I just won’t have any music. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

He chuckled, not detecting her subtle acerbity. “Yes, it would.”

She left the cathedral with its gothic spires and indomitable history and headed to her next gig, feeling no better than when she’d arrived an hour and a half ago. The evening sun made its presence known weakly, in a dusky blanket about her filled with smog and faceless buildings. She hardly took notice of the colorful, buoyant wedding crowd leaving the church at a leisurely pace, in no hurry to lose the magic of a well-sealed union. They paid her no mind either, making fawning comments about the bride and groom even though the skies portended rain or at least griped about the fat, scuddy clouds that wouldn’t shed their water weight and move on.

Personally, she gave the happy couple two years. And then somewhere down the road, she’d probably end up playing for one or both of their second marriages. Wouldn’t be the first time, and they’d pay her about thirty percent more too – inflation plus the high cost of embarrassment.

See? Not a bad deal. Except she’d already decided this was the last wedding she would do. Sure, she’d said that for the last six ceremonies, but she meant it this time
.

Fully upset now, she picked up her speed, meandering through Lower Manhattan along a well-beaten path, wishing she could ditch her complacent shadow. She took a deep, hopeless breath filled with car exhaust and restaurant fumes until she felt the back of her neck pop.

Hearing the strains of a soul-tugging double bass, she followed the sounds of jazz until she came upon a musician she knew well from her days at Julliard. Bassist extraordinaire Jean Laurent. A man from Cameroon who always had a white grin sparkling against his coffee skin. He liked to sing while he played. And right now, he was crooning away in French to an Afro-beat version of “I Let a Song Go Out of My Heart”.

Sighting her, he soloed on bass for a chorus and greeted her with a smile borne of innate joy. “
Salut
,
Shelley!
Quoi de neuf?
”

She stuck her hands in the pocket of her jacket, feeling the wad of cash, and replied with a shrug, “
Rien de neuf. Juste du vieux.
” Nothing new, just old. She smiled faintly. “How’s your little girl? She doing any better?”

Jean’s face dimmed a bit, but he still kept his unfailing groove. “Some days,
oui
. She’s a fighter. But she liked your soup.” He winked.

Shelley brightened. “I’m so glad. Have you found another gig yet?”

His fingers moved nimbly, digging into the thick strings. He half-laughed. “You keep asking, and I feel guilty for not answering yes,” he joked.

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head sadly. “I’ll keep my ear out.
Désolée, Jean, je dois partir maintenant.
See you around.”

He nodded cheerfully to her as he swayed with his upright bass and came right back in flawlessly at the chart’s head, singing in accented English this time.

“
I let a song go out of my heart… It was the sweetest melody…
”

She smiled at the sound of his voice and his grounded pulse. He had such easy grace. Like he knew how to exist with life, take it as it came, one gritty note at a time.

The huge case for his bass lay open on the sidewalk – how he received tips for the rent. Passing it, she discreetly dropped everything she’d earned from the wedding. He didn’t see, and she felt lighter for it. In some ways.

Jean’s worldly jive faded into the cacophony of the city as she approached the intersection of Church and Chambers. Head down, she noticed the same fissure in the cement just fourteen steps from the crosswalk. It had grown bigger over the last eighteen months. Changed. Unlike her.

Cars halted on opposite sides at the red light. A BMW lurched to a stop a foot from her, well past the white line. She glanced at the driver; he was on his phone, shades on, Guess watch peeking from his cuff.

Pedestrians pushed around her to gush into the street.
She nearly had to catch the hood of the sedan in order not to fall.

Walk
.

She took a fortifying breath and moved on deadened feet before the cabbies jumped the green light and hit the gas. She had eleven seconds to get to the other side.

Ramone’s Steakhouse was just up ahead.