“Huh?”
“Momo hires a fixer but Jojo hears about it and hires his own fixer and Jojo’s fixer takes out Momo’s fixer and Momo don’t know it so he thinks he’s gonna win the race and all the easy money is on him but it gonna be Jojo’s horse I’m telling you it’s gonna be Jojo’s and there’s big money to be made at ten-to-one odds. Ten to one! And it’s a sure thing.”
“A sure thing, huh?”
“Absolutely. You lay down the money. I lay down the bet. And we split the profit.”
“Split it? But—”
“Hey, I’ve got the know-how, you’ve got the bucks. It’s a partnership.”
Grumbling, the man pulled out his wallet. “I’ll put down a hundred.”
“Great. Just give me ninety—you can take my door admission out of the rest.
“Well—”
“Excellent.” He snatched the money out of the man’s hands. “The race runs about noon. I’ll get in touch with you right after. Like I said, it’s a sure thing. Unless, of course, Momo finds out. But I don’t think that’ll happen. Really. Probably.”
“Hey, T-Dog!”
Tyrone whirled around. Damn! It was one of the musicians, one that recognized him and knew his street name. That was the problem with plying your craft in a place where too many people knew who you were.
“All said and done now,” Tyrone said, shoving the doorman’s money into his pocket. “Be seeing you.”
“But …”
Too late. Tyrone skittered inside, ninety bucks the richer after paying his gate admission. He strolled into the heart of the club and angled for a chair at one of the tables in front of the stage, trying to avoid the musician on the other side who had recognized him. Just as he was about to sit, he saw a large man coming out the backstage door. And he did not look happy.
Tyrone didn’t have to look twice to recognize that face. He remembered all his marks, especially the recent ones, and that man walking into the club was the same bozo Tyrone had scammed not two weeks ago. He’d used a wire scam, quick and painless, and made about two hundred smackers. Small change, but he still figured the man wasn’t going to embrace him with open arms.
The world was getting entirely too small.
Tyrone did an about-face and moved toward the bar. He could see the man’s reflection in the glass behind the bar; he knew he was heading toward the front doors. Tyrone steered himself to the opposite side.
He saw a sign pointing the way to the men’s room. Perfect. He needed to take a leak anyway. He walked briskly down the corridor, then dived into the men’s room.
He moved quietly toward the stalls in the back. He slipped into the nearest one and quickly took care of business. Just as he left the stall, he spotted something glistening on the grungy tile floor. Most men probably wouldn’t have noticed, but Tyrone had a sixth sense. He could smell filthy lucre whenever he came near it.
He scooped the object up off the floor. He could have a ring to the pawnshop in—wait a minute. It wasn’t a ring; it was long and flat. There was engraving on one side; it looked like some sort of stylized B.
He shrugged. Well, it was still gold—or gold-looking, anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. He slid it into his coat pocket and made a mental note to give it some further scrutiny at a later date.
As he turned, he noticed a man standing at the sink. The man raised his hands toward his big Afro … and removed it.
He was wearing a wig! What in the—
Tyrone looked away, suppressing a smile. A drag queen, no doubt. He knew they hung out in some of the jazz clubs—worked in some of them, for that matter.
He grinned. Just another night in Babylon.
He started across the bathroom, then stopped. Now wait a minute. This supposed drag queen had a beard—a fake one, anyway. That would definitely make for an exotic act. As Tyrone watched, the man began peeling the facial hair off, a tiny bit at a time.
Whatever was going on here, it was more than just a drag queen getting in or out of costume. This was something strange and, in all likelihood, illegal. And he’d be a lot better off if he didn’t get dragged into it. He tiptoed quietly across the bathroom …
But not quietly enough. The man whirled around and glared at him. Those eyes, Tyrone thought, were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. And the meanest.
Tyrone spent enough time around tough customers to know what the man was thinking. He was thinking he didn’t want any witnesses to his disrobing routine. And now that he realized he had one, he would have to do something about it.
The man started across the bathroom, eyes lowered, his face still obscured by the bushy false beard. His hand was reaching for something shiny, something inside his shirt.
Good God—was that a knife?
Tyrone didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere he could go, no way he could maneuver. He was trapped. Dead meat.
The man moved closer to him. Tyrone was pressed against the far wall with no escape route …
They both heard it at the same time—a loud voice from somewhere outside the bathroom. “I dunno. You try in there, I’ll try over here.”
The man shoved his knife back in its sheath. “Later,” he whispered. Then he moved quickly toward the door. He shoved against the swinging door hard, driving it into someone on the other side who tumbled to the floor. The man with the knife lit out.
Tyrone checked himself in the mirror. His face was drawn; the panic was still visible in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, then left the men’s room. He didn’t know exactly what had happened in there, but he had the distinct feeling he had just narrowly escaped a particularly nasty and unpleasant end.
As he stepped into the club, he saw that a crowd was beginning to gather. The show would start soon. Well, thank God for that. He was more than ready for a little entertainment now. And more than ready for a drink. A serious drink.
He saw a pretty slip of a thing sitting at the bar and scooted onto the stool beside her. “Hey there,” he said, putting on his best smile. He pulled two shot glasses and a hard-boiled egg out of his jacket pocket. “Five bucks says I can move this egg from one glass to the other—without touching it.”
Within seconds, he was lost in the script for yet another con, his mind miles away from the fact that only seconds before, he had come two steps shy of being ripped to shreds by a thin, shiny serrated blade.
Chapter 8
BEN AND EARL scoured the backstage area, but they were unable to find any trace of the man with the rug. Earl was beginning to think Ben had hallucinated him. Ben was beginning to wonder himself.
At any rate, there was no more time for searching for unauthorized personnel. The crowd was beginning to rumble. It was five minutes past eight; they needed to get the show on the road.
Scat and Denny and Gordo and Ben took their places behind the curtain. Diane stood just offstage and gave them the one-minute sign. The musicians began tuning and warming up—except Scat. He never seemed to do anything in preparation. He just picked up his sax and slid on his glasses, and he was ready to make it happen.
“Psst, Ben! Take a look.” Gordo was peering through a gap in the curtain. “Not bad, huh?”
Not bad at all. The floor was packed; they had even set up tables in the bar to accommodate more patrons. He hadn’t seen such a full house in the entire six months he’d been playing here.
“Look up front. See the guy with all the hair? Isn’t that Wooley?”
Ben scanned the front row. Sure enough, there he was. John Wooley, jazz critic for the World. Ben recognized him from his photo in the paper.