Dagger Key and Other Stories

  The world beat against our door. Pin’s photograph was printed on the third page of the Black William Gazette, along with the news that the University of Pittsburgh would be sending a team of observers to measure the phenomenon, should it occur again, as was predicted (by whom, the Gazette did not say). There was a sidebar recounting Black William’s sordid history and Jonathan Venture’s version of BW’s involvement with the stars. The body of the article…well, it was as if the reporter had been privy to our conversation at the Szechuan Palace. I suspected that he had, if only at second-hand, since my wavefront theory was reproduced in full, attributed to “a local pundit.” As a result of this publicity, groups of people, often more than a hundred, mostly the young and the elderly, came to gather in front of the library between the hours of five and nine, thus depriving me of the customary destination of my evening walks.

  Stanky, his ego swollen to improbable proportions by two successful performances, by the adulation of his high school fans (“Someone ought to be writing everything Joey says down,” said one dreamy-eyed fool), became increasingly temperamental, lashing out at his bandmates, at me, browbeating Liz at every opportunity, and prowling about the house in a sulk, ever with a Coke and cigarette, glaring at all who fell to his gaze, not bothering to speak. In the mornings, he was difficult to wake, keeping Geno and Jerry waiting, wasting valuable time, and one particular morning, my frustration with him peaked and I let Timber into his bedroom and closed the door, listening while the happy pup gamboled across the mattress, licking and drooling, eliciting squeals and curses from the sleepy couple, an action that provoked a confrontation that I won by dint of physical threat and financial dominance, but that firmly established our unspoken enmity and made me anxious about whether I would be able to maneuver him to the point where I could rid myself of him and show a profit.

  A gray morning, spitting snow, and I answered the doorbell to find a lugubrious, long-nosed gentleman with a raw, bony face, toting a briefcase and wearing a Sy Sperling wig and a cheap brown suit. A police cruiser was parked at the curb; two uniformed officers stood smoking beside it, casting an indifferent eye toward the Polozny, which rolled on blackly in—as a local DJ was prone to characterize it—“its eternal search for the sea.” Since we were only a couple of days from the EP release, I experienced a sinking feeling, one that was borne out when the man produced a card identifying him as Martin Kiggins of Mckeesport, a Friend of the Court. He said he would like to have a word with me about Joseph Stanky.

  “How well do you know Joseph?” he asked me once we had settled in the office.

  Kiwanda, at her desk in the next room, made a choking noise. I replied that while I had, I thought, an adequate understanding of Joseph as a musician, I was unfamiliar with the details of his life.

  “Did you know he has a wife?” Kiggins was too lanky to fit the chair and, throughout our talk, kept scrunching around in it. “And he’s got a little boy. Almost two years old, he is.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Poor little guy nearly didn’t make it that far. Been sick his whole life.” Kiggins’ gaze acquired a morose intensity. “Meningitis.”

  I couldn’t get a handle on Kiggins; he acted as if he was trying to sell me something, yet he had arrived on my doorstep with an armed force and the authority of the law.

  “I thought meningitis was fatal,” I said.

  “Not a hundred percent,” said Kiggins cheerlessly. “His mother doesn’t have insurance, so he didn’t get the best of care.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “She’s on welfare. Things aren’t likely to improve for the kid or for her. She’s not what you’d call an attractive woman.”

  “Why are we talking about this?” I asked. “It’s a sad story, but I’m not involved.”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “Not any damn way. I don’t understand what you’re looking for.”

  Kiggins seemed disappointed in me. “I’m looking for Joseph. Is he here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Okay.” He put his hands on his knees and stood, making a show of peering out the window at his cop buddies.

  “I really don’t know if he’s here,” I said. “I’ve been working, I haven’t been downstairs this morning.”

  “Mind if I take a look down there?”

  “You’re goddamn right, I mind! What’s this about? You’ve been doing a dance ever since you came in. Why don’t you spit it out?”

  Kiggins gave me a measuring look, then glanced around the office—I think he was hoping to locate another chair. Failing this, he sat back down.

  “You appear to be a responsible guy, Vernon,” he said. “Is it okay I call you Vernon?”

  “Sure thing, Marty. I don’t give a shit what you call me as long as you get to the point.”

  “You own your home, a business. Pay your taxes…far as I can tell without an audit. You’re a pretty solid citizen.”