Twisted: The Collected Stories (30 page)

At Uptown Billiards Tony’s reception was a lot cooler but he found Izz, who
was
little and
was
in the back though not just hanging out; he was relieving a cocky young shark of a good wad of bills by
sweeping the table at eight ball without even paying much attention. After he pocketed the money and watched the loser slink out of the parlor, Izz turned to Tony and lifted a plucked eyebrow.

Tony introduced himself and mentioned Sam’s name.

Izz looked at him like he was a bare wall. Tony continued. “I’m looking for somebody.” He described the perp.

Without a word Izz stepped away and made a phone call. Tony heard enough of the conversation to know he’d called Sam and verified the story.

He returned to the table and racked the balls.

“Yeah,” Izz said, “guy like that was in here earlier. I remember the Rolex. Took it off and left it on the bar when he played so I knowed it was fake. He was good but he washed out the second round. He was trying too hard, you know what I’m saying? You can’t never win, you play that way. Soon as you start trying, you already lost.”

“He hangs here?”

“Some. I’ve seen him around the ’hood. Mostly he keeps to himself.”

“What’s his name?” Tony said good-bye to five twenties.

Izz walked to the bar and flipped through a soggy, dog-eared stack of papers. Contestants in the tournament, Tony guessed. “Devon Williams. Yeah, gotta be him. I know everybody else in here.”

Another $100 changed hands. “Got his address?”

“Here you go.”

It was on 131st Street, just four blocks away.

“Thanks, man. Later.”

Izz didn’t answer. He sank two balls on the break, one striped, one solid. He walked around the table, muttering, “Decisions, fucking decisions.”

Outside, Tony stood on Lexington Avenue, debating. If he called for backup they’d know what was going down and the detectives would swoop in like hawks. They’d snatch the case away from him in a minute. Somebody else’d take the collar and his chance for the boost with his detective application would disappear.

Okay, he decided. I’ll handle it solo.

And so, armed with his Glock and his backup revolver strapped to his ankle, Tony Vincenzo plunged into residential Harlem. The fog and air were heavy here, absorbing the sounds of the city. It was as if he were in a different time or a different place—maybe a forest or the mountains. Quiet, very quiet, and eerie. A word came to him. A term his father had used once, talking about music:
nocturne.
Tony wasn’t sure what it meant but he knew it had to do with night. And he thought it had to do with something peaceful.

Which was pretty damn funny, he decided. Here he was on his way to collar an armed and dangerous perp by himself. And he was thinking about peaceful music.

Nocturne . . .

Five minutes later he was at Devon Williams’s tenement.

He turned down the receiver volume of his Motorola speaker/mike and pinned it to the shoulder of his leather jacket, where even if he was shot and down he could still maybe call in a 10–13 officer
needs assistance. He clipped his shield to the pocket of the jacket and drew his Glock.

He crept into the lobby, read the directory. Williams lived in one of the first-floor apartments. Tony stepped outside again and climbed the fire escape. The window was open but the curtains were drawn. He couldn’t see inside clearly, though he caught a glimpse of Williams, walking into what seemed to be the kitchen. Bingo!

He was carrying the violin case and was still in the sweats. Which meant he’d probably still be armed.

A deep breath.

Okay, whatta we do? Backup or not?

No . . . Once-in-a-lifetime chance. I do it myself, I get the gold shield.

Or get killed.

Don’t think about it.

Just go!

Silently Tony climbed through the window into a small parlor. He smelled sour food and dirty clothes. He moved slowly into the hallway and paused just outside the kitchen. Wiped the sweat off his gun hand.

Okay, do it.

One . . .

Two . . . 

Tony froze.

From inside the kitchen came music.

Violin music.

A little scratchy, a little squeaky. A rusty-door sound. But then, as the player worked on some scales, the tone became smooth and resonant. Tony,
heart pounding, plastered against the wall, cocked his head as he heard the violinist break into some jazzy riffs.

So, there were two people inside, maybe more. Williams’s fence probably. Or maybe even the buyer of the Strad. Did that mean more weapons?

Now
backup?

No, Tony thought. Too late. Nothing to do but go for the collar.

He spun around the corner, crouching. Gun up at eye level.

He shouted, “Freeze! Everybody!”

But there was no everybody.

There was only tall, chubby Devon Williams, holding the violin under his chin, the bow gripped in his right hand. Gasping in shock at Tony’s entrance, mouth open, eyes wide.

“Man, you scared the shit outa me.” Slowly his shoulders slumped and he let out a sigh. “Man, it’s you. The cop.”

“You’re Devon Williams?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Put it down.”

He slowly set the violin on a table.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Yo, man, keep the noise down. There’re kids in th’other room. They’re sleeping.”

Tony laughed to himself at the boy’s stern directive.

“Anybody else?”

“No, just the kids.”

“You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”

“No, man.” He sighed in disgust. “I’m not lying.”

“Empty the pockets. I’m not going to tell you again.”

He did.

“Where’s the piece?” Tony snapped.

“Of what?”

“Don’t be cute. Your gun.”

“Gun? I don’t have one.”

“I saw it tonight. At the concert hall.”

Williams gestured at the table. “That’s what I used.” He pointed to a bubble-gum cigar, wrapped in cellophane. “I just held it in my pocket. I saw that in a movie one time.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not.” He turned his pockets and the pouch of the sweatshirt inside out. They were empty.

Tony cuffed him then eyed Williams carefully. “How old’re you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You live here?”

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

“No, man, I told you, the kids.”

“They yours?”

He laughed. “They’re my brothers and sister.”

“Where’re your parents?”

Another laugh. “Wherever they be, they ain’t here.”

Tony read him his
Miranda
rights. Thinking: Got the perp, got the fiddle and nobody’s hurt. I’ll be Detective Vincenzo by the next cycle.

“Listen, Devon, you give me the name of your fence and I’ll tell the DA you cooperated.”

“I don’t have a fence.”

“Bullshit. How were you going to move the fiddle without a fence?”

“Wasn’t gonna sell it, man. I stole it for me.”

“You?”

“What I’m saying. To play. Make some money in the subways.”

“Bullshit.”

“’S’true.”

“Why risk hard time? Why didn’t you just buy one? It’s not like a Beemer. Could’ve picked one up in a pawnshop for two, three bills.”

“Oh, yeah, where’m I gonna get three hundred? My old man, he took off and my mama’s off with who the hell knows what boyfriend and I got left with the kids, need food and clothes and day care. So whatta I buy a violin
with,
man? I ain’t got no money.”

“Where’d you learn to play? In school?”

“Yeah, in school. I was pretty good too.” He gave a smile and Tony caught the glitter of a gold tooth.

“And you, what, dropped out to work?”

“When Daddy took off, yeah. Couple years ago.”

“And you just decided you’d take up violin again? ’Cause you can make more money at that than pool. Right?”

Williams blinked. Then sighed angrily, figuring out how he’d been made. “What they pay me stacking boxes at A&P—it just ain’t enough, man.” He closed his eyes and gave a bitter laugh. “So, I’m going into the system. . . . Hell. Never thought it’d happen to me. Man, I tried hard to stay out. I just wanted to make enough to get my aunt here. From North Carolina. To help take care of the kids. She
said she’d move but she ain’t got the money. Cost a couple thousand.”

“You know what they say: Don’t do the crime, you can’t do the time.”

“Shit.” Williams was gazing at the violin, a curious look in his eyes, a longing almost.

Tony looked at the young man’s dark eyes. He said, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take those cuffs off for a few minutes, you wanta play a little, one last time.”

A faint grin. “Yeah?”

“Sure. But I tell you, you move an inch a way I don’t like, I’ll park one in your ass.”

“No, man. I’m cool.”

Tony unhooked the cuffs and stood back, the Glock pointed near his prisoner.

Williams picked up the violin and played another riff. He was getting a feel for it. The sound was much more resonant, fuller, this time. He launched into “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” and played some variations on it. Then a few little classical exercises. Some Bach, Tony thought. A bit of “Ain’t Misbehavin’ ” too. And a few pieces he remembered his mother playing when he was a boy. Finally, Williams finished, sighed and tossed the instrument into the case. He nodded toward it. “Funny, ain’t it? You think about stealing something for months and months and you finally get it up to do it, and what happens but you perp some old piece of crap like this, all messed up and everything.”

Tony too looked at the nicks in the wood, the scratches, the worn neck.

It cost more than my town house.
 . . . 

“Okay, son, it’s time to go.” He picked up the
handcuffs from the table. “We’ll get somebody from social services to take care of the kids.”

The smile faded from Williams’s face as he looked toward the bedroom. “Man,” he said. “Man.”

The lobby of the Sherry-Netherland hotel seemed pretty stark to Tony Vincenzo, who judged the quality of hotels by the length of the happy hour and the square footage of chrome in the lobby. But this was rich person territory and what did he know about rich people?

It was small too. And it looked even smaller because it was filled with reporters and cops. Along with the woman in the red dress, the one from the mayor’s office. Sergeant Weber was here too, as well, looking pissed he’d been called out of bed at two
A.M.
to appear at a dog-and-pony show for an asshole, however famous he was.

Tony walked into the lobby, carrying the violin under his arm. He stopped in front of Weber, whose perpetual frown deepened slightly as he waved off reporters’ questions.

Beaming, a coiffed Edouard Pitkin, wearing a suit and tie, Jesus, at this hour, stepped out of the elevator and into the glare of the lights. He strode forward to take the violin. But Tony didn’t offer it to him. Instead, he merely shook the musician’s hand.

Pitkin dropped the beat for a moment, then—aware of the press—smiled again and said, “What can I say, Officer? Thank you so much.”

“For what?”

Another beat. “Well, for recovering my Stradivarius.”

Tony gave a short laugh. Pitkin frowned. Then the cop motioned to the back of the crowd. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

Devon Williams, wearing his A&P uniform and work shoes, walked awkwardly through the forest of reporters.

Pitkin spun to Weber. “Why isn’t he in handcuffs?” he raged.

The sergeant looked at Tony, silently asking the same question.

Tony shook his head. “I mean, why would I cuff the guy recovered your violin?”

“He . . . what?”

“Tell us what happened,” a reporter shouted.

Weber nodded and Tony stepped into the crescent of reporters. He cleared his throat. “I spotted the perpetrator on One hundred twenty-fifth Street carrying the instrument in question and gave pursuit. This young man, Devon Williams, at great risk to himself, intervened and tackled the assailant. He was able to rescue the instrument. The perpetrator fled. I pursued him but unfortunately he got away.”

He’d worried that this might sound too rehearsed, which it was. But, hell, everybody’s used to cop-speak. If you sound too normal nobody believes you.

Pitkin said, “But . . . I just thought he looked like . . . I mean . . . ”

Tony said, “I saw the perpetrator without the ski mask. He looked nothing like Mr. Williams.” A glance at Pitkin. “Other than the fact they were both African American. I asked Mr. Williams to join us
here so he could collect his reward. He said no but I insisted he come. I think good citizenship ought to be, you know, encouraged.”

A reporter called, “How much is the reward, Mr. Pitkin?”

“Well, I hadn’t . . . it’s five thousand dollars.”

“What?” Tony whispered, frowning.

“But ten if the instrument’s undamaged,” Pitkin added quickly.

Tony handed him the case. The musician turned abruptly and walked to a table near the front desk. He opened the case and examined the violin carefully.

Tony called, “It’s okay?”

“Yes, yes, it’s in fine shape.”