Neal Pollack

I said o-key and turned the radio on. “Now’s the Time” by the greatest, Miles Davis, blared to life. I snapped my fingers, taking it as a good sign. In a moment, the song was over and “Salt Peanuts” rolled on. Then, an old Duke Ellington tune, “Mood Indigo.”

“The radio is good luck today,” I said. “One good old good one after another.” I glanced over at Seamus and he was somewhere else. He was staring straight ahead and tightening his hands. He had the blank look of revenge on his face. It was there in the sad resignation of his small eyes. It looked like he had just found out his wife had left him again. It was still snowing as I took the next left and headed toward the other side of town, away from the bright lights.

5

The record playing was “Swanee River,” another old one, when we came in. Clovis sat at a table alone in the back, drinking. He looked sharp, like always: wide-shouldered and black, his skin the color of some distant world, the soft face and round cheeks that gave away his good nature. He saw us and then nodded his head and we watched his eyes move to the left where Langley was slow-dancing with a tall female patron. Langley had his horse face buried in the dame’s soft blond hair and seemed to be very occupied with it: like a blue jay of happiness, him with his eyes closed, getting dreamy, petting the girl’s hair, sighing softly. For a moment, I felt sad having to interrupt him. It didn'’t seem right separating a fellah like that from the one thing that might make him happy. But Clovis finished his drink and stood up very carefully, backing away from the table. And then, just like that, he winked.

“Is it you that’s been saying those things about my wife, Langley?” Seamus shouted. “Is it you that’s been saying she’'s got a soft spot for horn players?”

The blond girl got the idea and cleared out quick. Langley looked at Seamus, sized him up, then glanced over at Clovis and frowned. In a flash, he made a reach for a highball glass and tossed it toward our heads, then ducked for the side door.

Clovis sighed and shook his head. “A couple of amateurs, you two,” he said.

“I'’ll get the automobile,” I whispered, and headed around front.

I started the automobile up and Clovis climbed in the passenger seat beside me. “Don’t say it. I know I owe you twenty, Jim,” he said. “Next week.”

“You’ve been saying that for three weeks,” I mumbled, and threw the gear into drive. The coupe took off like a rocket. We spun around the corner, sliding in the snow. I turned down the alley and saw Langley doing his best to pull himself over a barbed-wire fence. He was about seven feet off the ground and all knees and elbows.

“There stands our man,” Clovis said.

I always liked Clovis, not so much because he was someone I felt I could trust, but because he was someone I admired for his reputation of being a ladies’ man. He had one of those tiny elegant mustaches, a thin line just above his lips, and smooth-looking hair with just the right amount of relaxer. Also, most of the time he was holding some pills, black beauties, west coasters, bennies, some kind, and he always knew a few good-looking white girls who thought he was an amateur photographer. He’d take pictures of them. They were what I might call forbidden pictures. He had this portable Polaroid and a whole collection of close-ups of white girls undressing. He would show you them if you asked, and usually I was very interested. He might have been one of the best coronet players that ever lived, the way he played so slow and sad, if he sat still long enough to listen to himself, but that was a no go. He would sit in sessions around town but, for the most part, if a dame wasn'’t involved, he had no interest in being still that long.

“Now what?” I asked, and it was at that moment, Seamus came around the corner.

“Now you turn your head, Jimmy, because this is not gonna be pretty,” Clovis said with a grin.

“Please, no!” Langley shouted, and it became apparent he was no longer climbing. He was stuck at the top, his pants leg snarled by a ring of barbed wire. Seamus saw this and moved down the alley, slower now, taking his time. He took off his hat and his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves very carefully.

“Please, please, let me get down first!” Langley shouted. “To be fair about it.”

Seamus went up and grabbed the fence in both his big hands and gave it a shake. It was like making a wish with a dime, easy. Just like that, Langley fell on his back right at Seamus’s feet.

Then, “Please, wait, wait a minute

she

she didn'’t mean anything,” Langley muttered, and in my mind I imagined a big red dictionary which opened to a page that read:

she didn'’t mean anything\she did not meen ’en-e-thin \

slang phrase 1: at this moment, exactly the wrong thing to say.