Viper's Dream, page 6
Estella led Viper down a hallway, into a dark, threadbare bedroom. The air smelled of stale sweat, like a locker room. But Viper didn’t care. He was horny. And he was still thinking of Yolanda. Estella stretched out on the bed.
“Come here, baby,” Estella said. “I’ll make you forget that high yellow bitch.”
They didn’t even get out of their clothes. Viper dropped his pants around his ankles. Estella lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties. The entire act lasted only a few minutes, and as soon as it was over, Viper fell asleep.
Later, he would have no idea how long he lay unconscious beside Estella. It was the smell that woke him. A putrid, syrupy stink. Before he opened his eyes, he felt the sticky vomit on his cheek.
“Aaaaarrrrrgggggh!”
He jumped backward off the bed, fell against the wall. Estella lay on her back, on the bed, her eyes wide open, lifeless, a stream of syrupy puke streaming from her mouth—Hutch’s Monday breakfast—spreading across the pillow.
Viper stumbled down the hall, found the bathroom. Leaning over the rusty sink, he washed Estella’s vomit from his face. When he returned to the living room, all the junkies were asleep. Except for bow-tied Bill Henry. He continued to fumble with his clarinet. He looked up at Viper, his eyes glazed.
“Hey, Viper. What you doin’ here?”
“Goodbye, Bill.”
Viper left the shooting gallery. Daylight had broken. The streets of Harlem were starting to buzz. He returned to his apartment on Lenox Avenue, cracked open a bottle of bourbon. He drank until he passed out. He had a vision of Bertha, his fiancée, back in Meachum, Alabama. She stood naked in a bathroom, in front of a mirror. Her belly was swollen. Nine months pregnant. She held a straight razor to her throat, her hand quavering violently. Then, just as she drew the blade across her neck—
* * *
The rattling telephone jolted him awake.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Clyde.”
“Hello, Mr. O.”
“Come see me at the penthouse. Right away.”
Viper drove downtown.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Morton.”
The black doorman of Mr. O’s building was, as always, full of bonhomie. So was the black elevator operator.
“Well, hello, Mr. Morton. I’ll take you straight to the top!”
Matilda, the head maid, was as plump and jolly as ever as she swung open the front door.
“Well, look at you, Clyde Morton. More handsome every time I lay eyes on you!”
And the maids busily rolling joints greeted him in singsong unison …
“Hi, Clyyyyyde.”
… as he and Matilda passed through the sunny, joint-rolling room.
For his part, Viper tried to hide how shaken he still felt by what had happened at the shooting gallery that morning.
“Mr. O will be with you shortly.”
Matilda left Viper alone in the small, book-lined den with doors on three sides. The Prince by Machiavelli lay in its place on the reading table. Suddenly, the honey-skinned, emerald-eyed girl slipped in through one of the doors, dressed in her maid’s uniform, as silent and agile as a cat.
“Hello, killer.”
“Quit calling me that, Yolanda.”
“Why? It suits you. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk this morning, at Hutch’s Hideaway.”
“You were with your boyfriend.”
“Peewee’s not my boyfriend. I’ve never even let him kiss me.”
“Then what were you doing out with him at five in the morning?”
“I’m a prisoner in this penthouse! Aunt Matilda watches me like a warden. But she goes to sleep early, especially on Sunday nights. So, once in a while I sneak out with Peewee. He takes me to clubs and makes sure that I’m home before Matilda wakes up at six o’clock.”
“This is a regular thing of yours? Sneaking out with Peewee Sunday night?”
“It’s happened three or four times. I get to listen to bands, learn my craft.”
“And Peewee does this out of the kindness of his heart? Doesn’t even expect you to give him a kiss?”
“He says he wants to marry me.”
“So you’re leading him on?”
“I am under Matilda’s control until I turn twenty-one. That’s thirteen months from now. Only then will I be free. I’m gonna walk out of this place and become a singer, a great jazz singer.”
“And what about Peewee?”
“Damn it, Clyde, don’t you understand? It’s you I want!”
“No, Yolanda. I didn’t understand that.”
Yolanda stared hard into his eyes. She walked right up to him, stood so close their bodies were almost touching.
“You can call me Yo-Yo now.”
She spun around and quickly, silently slipped out the same door she had entered through. Two seconds later, the door on the other side of the den opened.
“Come on in, Clyde,” Mr. O said.
“Your call sounded urgent.”
Viper was startled by the sight of Mr. O wearing a dark velvet bathrobe over silk pajamas. This was the first time he’d ever seen his boss in anything but a business suit. Mr. O seemed weak as he shuffled in his slippers toward his desk. They sat across from each other in Mr. O’s spacious and airy library of an office. Viper had never seen his boss so subdued, solemn.
“I heard about Estella,” Mr. O said. Only then did Viper see that the old man’s eyes were red-rimmed. He had been crying. “How she died.”
“News travels fast.”
“I have ears everywhere, Clyde. I’ve known Harlem longer than you’ve been alive. I remember Estella when she first arrived from South Carolina. Just as cute as could be. And so excited to have made it up North.” The old man paused, and his Adam’s apple trembled in his long, pale throat. “Now, they’re sending her body back down South for burial. All because she had the bad luck to meet West Indian Charlie.”
“He’s a businessman.”
“Heroin is a filthy business, Clyde. I would never deal that poison, would you?”
“Not after what I saw this morning.”
“What sort of animal pushes junk?”
“Charlie has approached Peewee and me.”
“And Big Al. Yes, I’ve heard. I tried out Big Al as my body man before you came along. He’s a cretin.”
“Decent barber, though.”
“And West Indian Charlie is some kind of voodoo witch doctor, you know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“You realize what Charlie’s real plan is, don’t you? He wants you to rub me out, so that he can then rub you out. He wants our entire business. To replace Mexican locoweed with his Jamaican gold or whatever the hell they call it. Charlie would have all of us dead. You must see that, don’t you, Clyde?”
“Yes, I do.”
“We need to put West Indian Charlie out of business. Permanently. And you have to be the one to do it, Clyde. Peewee will be your accomplice. But you have to be the one who does the deed. You knew this day would come. When you would have to go to the next level. Are you ready to do that, Clyde?”
“Yes, Mr. O, I am.”
“That’s what I figured.”
Mr. O had already worked out a meticulous plan for how the deed would be done. But he left it up to Viper to sell the scheme to Peewee. Viper saw this as Mr. O’s test of his leadership, his Machiavellian moxie.
* * *
Early the next morning, Viper met the little chauffeur on the rooftop of Mr. O’s nightclub, the same place Pork Chop had taken young Clyde Morton to smoke his first joint four years earlier. It was sunny but bitingly cold. Pigeons warbled. A seagull screeched overhead. Six stories below, horns honked and traffic zipped along the avenue.
Viper could have begun with small talk, maybe asking Peewee about his date at Hutch’s Hideaway Monday morning. He wondered if maybe Peewee would be the one to bring up Yolanda, to boast of his secret Sunday night outings with his would-be fiancée. But Viper didn’t give him the chance. He got straight to business: “Mr. O has an assignment for us.”
“Damn,” Peewee said after Viper made his pitch. “Mr. O done thought through every detail. How much he gonna pay us?”
“Ten grand each.”
Peewee whistled. “Shouldn’t you get more?”
“If we get caught, they will send your black ass to the electric chair along with mine. Same risk, same pay.”
Peewee nodded. “And Red Carney’s on board?”
“Yes,” Viper said. “I met with him last night.”
Peewee paused. He removed his chauffeur’s cap, scratched his head, put the cap back on, and stroked his chin. Finally, he asked: “Any reservations?”
“Only one,” Viper said. “Somehow, this doesn’t seem fair. West Indian Charlie is selling a product that’s superior to ours.”
“All the more reason to take it off the market,” Peewee said. “Besides, you’re just talkin’ herb. Charlie’s dealin’ heroin. We gotta get that shit outta Harlem.”
“So, you’re in?”
“Let’s kill the motherfucker.”
* * *
That night, at half past eleven, Viper and Peewee entered Gentleman Jack’s barbershop through a back entrance that gave out on a dark alley. The front door had been locked, the street side windows shuttered since closing time at seven PM. They waited in the main room, with its wall-sized mirrors and plush barber chairs. Viper had approached Big Al at his barber’s station that afternoon, telling him to go see West Indian Charlie at the taxi stand, to tell him they had a deal and to arrange a midnight sit-down. At the stroke of midnight, Viper and Peewee heard a key in the front door of the shop. The little bell above the door tinkled, and in walked Big Al and West Indian Charlie.
“My comrades!” Charlie exclaimed, vigorously shaking hands with Viper and Peewee. “I am so pleased about your decision.” He handed Viper a briefcase. “Ten thousand dollars. Consider it a signing bonus.”
“We ain’t signing shit, Charlie,” Peewee said. “But we’ll take your money.”
“Count it if you like.”
“There’ll be time for that,” Viper said. “Listen, Big Al—Peewee, Charlie and I need to discuss business details that don’t concern you. I’d like you to go back to your apartment. Take this briefcase. I don’t wanna leave all that cash here. We’ll come by your place when we’re done here.”
Big Al looked perplexed. He stood stock still, blinking rapidly. Viper turned to Charlie, raised his eyebrows inquisitively, posing the silent question: “You with me on this?”
“That’s fine by me,” Charlie said.
“I thought I was gonna be a partner,” Big Al bellowed.
“Shut the fuck up, Al,” Peewee said in his needling, high-pitched voice. “You the muscle. And you should feel lucky to have that damn job since everybody seen me kick your ass. You remember that time, Al, with the bottle?”
“That’s enough, Peewee,” Viper said. “Go on home, Big Al.”
“Don’t even think about stealin’ our money,” Peewee said. “And lock the door to the barbershop on your way out. We don’t want nobody wandering in here thinking they can get a midnight conk.”
“Anything else?” Big Al asked, glowering.
“You excused,” Peewee said.
Big Al, briefcase full of cash in hand, lumbered out of the shop, locked the door behind him.
“Charlie,” Viper said, “take a seat in Big Al’s chair. This is his barber’s station. How about a drink? We’ve got Jamaican rum.”
“That sounds fine,” Charlie said. “But, you know, I’m not Jamaican.”
“Peewee, three shots, if you please.”
The chauffeur took out a bottle and three glasses from a cupboard.
“Shame about Estella, huh, Charlie?” Viper said.
“Ah, Viper, one can’t afford to be sentimental in our line of work.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Peewee handed shot glasses brimming with rum to Viper and Charlie. “Gentlemen,” Viper said grandly, raising his glass. “To our success!”
The three of them clinked glasses.
As Charlie leaned his head back and swallowed his shot, Peewee slid behind him, pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his jacket. As Charlie lowered his arm with the shot glass, Peewee grabbed his wrist, cuffed him to the brass arm rail of the barber’s chair.
“What the fuck!”
Viper grabbed Charlie’s free arm. Peewee took out a second pair of handcuffs, chained Charlie’s other wrist to the rail of the big barber’s chair.
“You treacherous motherfuckers!” Charlie screamed, writhing helplessly, both wrists chained to the chair, kicking at the air. “Don’t you know what I am? If you harm me, you will be cursed till the end of your days!”
Viper lifted a straight razor from Big Al’s barber’s station. He grabbed Charlie by the hair, jerked his head back with one hand and, with the other, held the blade to his throat.
West Indian Charlie started growling, muttering incoherently. It sounded like furious gibberish.
“Ade Due Damballa. Secoise entienne mais pois de morte.”
Viper’s hand was quavering wildly, the blade an inch from Charlie’s throat.
“Cut him, Clyde!” Peewee squealed.
Charlie muttered furiously.
“Morteisma lieu de voucuier de mieu vochette.”
“What’s he sayin’?” Viper asked, struggling not to panic.
“Some voodoo shit!” Peewee cried. “Kill him!”
“Endonline pour de boisette damballa!”
Viper slashed. Blood exploded in a geyser, splattered the huge mirrors.
“Damn!” Peewee cried.
Charlie fell limp in the barber’s chair, making a grotesque gargling sound. Blood streamed from his slit throat, soaking his shirt front.
Viper and Peewee moved briskly, according to plan. Viper dropped the razor. Peewee undid the handcuffs. Passed them to Viper, who pocketed them. Days later he would return them to the man who had loaned them to him: Detective Red Carney.
Viper and Peewee went to the basement bathroom. Washed the fresh bloodstains from their clothes and hands. Exited through the back entrance, into the dark alley. They went to Mr. O’s nightclub, soon found themselves at a table with a bevy of brown-skinned beauties from Brooklyn, come up to Harlem for a good time. At about one o’clock, the rumors started. There had been a murder at Gentleman Jack’s.
By one thirty, the cops arrived at Big Al’s apartment.
“Open up, Al! This is Detective Red Carney of the New York Police Department!”
They banged on the door while Big Al cowered behind his couch. Finally they knocked the door down. It took four uniformed cops to hold down the flailing giant and cuff his hands behind his back.
“Alvin Oakley,” Carney snarled, “you are under arrest for the murder of Charles Louis Delambert, alias West Indian Charlie.”
“It was the Viper!” Big Al screamed, exploding in violent sobs. “You all know the Viper did it, you motherfuckers!”
“Sorry, Big Al,” Carney said. “This is an open-and-shut case.”
The papers were full of it the next day. A dozen witnesses on Seventh Avenue had seen Big Al entering Gentleman Jack’s at midnight with West Indian Charlie, who was carrying a briefcase. A little while later, Big Al was seen leaving alone, locking up the barbershop, said briefcase in hand. Charlie had been killed at Big Al’s barber’s station, his throat slashed with Big Al’s razor. And Big Al was found with Charlie’s briefcase and the ten thousand dollars inside it. Presumably, he was getting ready to flee to Mexico that very night—before the cops burst in.
Two days after his arrest, Big Al hung himself in his cell.
* * *
Something changed after that. Clyde “the Viper” Morton still cruised the streets of Harlem in his big black Cadillac. But folks no longer called out to him. The older men didn’t tip their hats. The women stopped blowing kisses. Now, folks tended to look away, with a sort of shy deference. There was no more love for the Viper among his people. There was only fear.
CHAPTER
5
NOBODY IS SURE OF THE exact date, but it was sometime in 1961 that the Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter started posing the question to jazz musicians at the Cathouse: “If you were given three wishes, to be instantly granted, what would they be?”
Many of them wished for mastery over their art. Just as many wished for money. Some wished for world peace. Nica’s favorite response had come from Thelonious Monk.
One: To be successful musically.
Two: To have a happy family.
Three: To have a crazy friend like you!
Nica had never seen anyone dwell on the question as long and as contemplatively as Viper Morton on this November night. He sat on the couch, staring into space, with a strange air of concentration. He was as still as a snake sunning itself on a rock. A pencil was poised between his fingers. He had scribbled something on the notepad in front of him, but from where Nica stood, she couldn’t read the words. Something was wrong with The Viper. Nica saw it right away when she and Monk pulled up to the corner in her Bentley as the reefer man stepped out of the phone booth on Lenox Avenue. Pork Chop Bradley had arrived at the Cathouse a half hour ago. He and Viper had a tense exchange, but Nica hadn’t been able to hear what they had said to each other. Now Pork Chop sat in a corner, fingering his bass and occasionally casting anxious glances at the Viper, who remained oblivious, lost in thought.
Viper was the first non-musician to whom Nica had asked the question. Was that why he took so long to consider his answers? Or was it because he was a gangster and was cautious about what he put down on paper?
Nica decided to bring her guest a fresh bourbon on the rocks. He turned his head slowly toward her as Nica set the glass down on the coffee table; she studiously avoided a glance at what her guest had scribbled on the notepad.
“Here you are, Viper.”
“Thank you, Nica.”
“You know, I usually photograph the people I ask about their three wishes. But you wouldn’t like that, Viper, would you?”
