Viper's Dream, page 7
“Are you secretly working for the FBI, Nica?” Viper asked with just the faintest trace of a smile.
The baroness let go a fluty laugh. “Surely, you’re joking! J. Edgar Hoover has been trying to have me deported for the past six years!”
The doorbell rang.
“Pardon me.”
Viper knew the FBI was said to have been trying to send the baroness back to Europe—ever since the night Charlie Parker had dropped dead in her hotel suite. Yet he was still suspicious of the way she had just suddenly materialized in the jazz world, getting to know all these musicians, spreading around all this money, this hospitality. What was in it for the baroness?
“Well, look who’s here!” Nica trilled as she swung open the front door of the Cathouse.
“Hello, Baroness,” Viper heard the famous gravelly voice answer.
In walked Miles Davis. Coolest motherfucker on the planet. Wearing pitch-black shades in the middle of the night. At this moment in time, Miles was king. Viper worried about him, though. A few years ago, Miles had had a ferocious heroin habit. Finally, he’d locked himself up in his Daddy’s house in East St. Louis, gone cold turkey. It was Charlie Parker who had turned Miles on to junk. Miles was playing in Bird’s band, and everybody wanted to emulate Bird. They figured to play like him, you had to shoot up like him. Now, with Bird six years dead and Miles’s own career thriving, Viper could only hope the trumpeter was staying away from junk. Miles sauntered over to him. Viper reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a plump joint.
“Thanks, Viper,” Miles growled.
“Anytime, Miles.”
“What you writing, your memoirs?”
“Nica asked me my three wishes. I’m contemplating.”
“Yeah, she asked me the same question a few weeks ago. I told her I had only one wish.”
“What was that?”
“To be white!”
Miles exploded in contemptuous laughter.
* * *
“Yesterday, December 7th, 1941,” the president intoned, “a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
It was midday, and Viper listened to FDR’s address on the radio in his basement office at Gentleman Jack’s. This was the same office that Detective Red Carney had decided not to search that night—one year earlier—when they framed Big Al for West Indian Charlie’s murder. After the speech, Viper was listening to the congressional vote to declare war when Peewee walked glumly into his office in his cap and uniform. He plopped down in a chair. Viper clicked off the radio. He thought the little man was saddened by the sudden outbreak of war. But no.
“It’s over,” Peewee said.
“What is?”
“Yolanda and me.”
“Matilda’s niece?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know, Viper. We were engaged to be married. She just called it off.”
“Why?”
“Today’s her twenty-first birthday. She is now officially out of Matilda’s control. And she told me she liked me, but she wasn’t gonna marry no chauffeur.”
“Damn, Peewee, I’m sorry.”
“I told her I ain’t just a chauffeur. I’m a businessman! And I ain’t gonna be drivin’ Mr. O around forever.”
“What did she say to that?”
“She just laughed in my face. Like I’m so pathetic. Bitch think she white.”
“She’s New Orleans Creole.”
“Which means she’s every bit as much a nigger as you or me.”
“Sounds like you’re better off without her.”
“She’s singing tonight. Amateur Night at the Apollo. She’s been waiting four years for this chance. She told me to spread the word. She needs supporters in the crowd.”
“I’ll be there. You going?”
“Fuck no. I’m gonna go down to Greenwich Village. Get me a real white girl!”
“Better enjoy this life while we can, huh? We might damn well be drafted soon.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Pearl Harbor.”
“Who she?”
* * *
The Apollo was packed that night. Naturally, Viper Morton was given a choice seat, fifth row center. But no one dared approach him. No one even dared wave hello. One year after West Indian Charlie got his throat slit and Big Al hung himself in his cell, Viper had fulfilled his Machiavellian destiny: feared by all, loved by none. All around him, he heard talk of war. The lights dimmed. Amateur night began. One hopeful singer, one deluded musician, one desperate band after another. Viper pitied them in the same way he pitied his younger self, an ignorant hick just arrived from Meachum, Alabama. He didn’t have what it took to be a trumpet player. Pork Chop let him know that real fast, so he’d quit. These amateurs, well, all of them were better than he had been. But still, they had no business thinkin’ they could make it. Then came the last contestant of the evening. Viper was so nervous for her, he could hardly breathe.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee announced, “please welcome Yolanda DeVray!”
Yo-Yo looked incandescent in her purple party dress. She strode up to the microphone with an uncanny ease and comfort, totally natural. Like she belonged up there. Like she was born to do this. Then Yo-Yo opened her mouth to sing.
If it was the voice of an angel, then it was one fierce angel, an angel who sweeps down on you with a fiery sword. Yo-Yo slayed the audience with her unique sound, a voice that was both ethereal and earthy, sweet yet sultry, tender but filled with a steamy sensuality. And through the entire song, Yo-Yo seemed to be looking straight at the Viper. When she hit her final, orgiastic note, the entire audience rose to its feet, applauding madly. Viper stood there, clapping hard, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes. Yo-Yo wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her eyes slowly scanned the crowd. She was beaming. Drinking in the adulation. This was her baptism.
Minutes later, the emcee thundered: “The winner of tonight’s Apollo Theater Amateur Night competition is—by unanimous decision—Yolanda DeVray!”
Backstage, Yo-Yo was mobbed. But when folks saw the Viper jostling his way through the crowd, they abruptly stepped aside.
“Clyde, I’m so glad you came!” Yolanda glowed. “Did you see I was looking at you the whole time?”
“Yes, I did, Yo-Yo.”
“Take me away from here!”
Viper took her to the Savoy Ballroom. They had an intimate corner booth. He ordered pink champagne.
“Happy birthday, Yo-Yo.”
“Thanks, killer.”
“You need to stop calling me that.”
“Why? I see who you are.”
“And I see you, Yo-Yo.”
“What do you see?”
“A great singer. A star.”
“A lot of men gave me their business cards tonight. Do you think I should join a band?”
“Depends which one. You could certainly get a place in the house band at Mr. O’s club.”
“He didn’t even show up tonight.”
“Mr. O? That’s true. I didn’t see Pork Chop there either.”
“Tell me, Clyde, would you like to be my manager?”
“I don’t know that anybody could manage you, Yo-Yo.”
“You could. You might be the only man that can manage me.”
“We should discuss this in my apartment.”
“Let’s go.”
Yo-Yo made love the way she sang. She gave all of herself to it. Like her singing, her lovemaking was fierce and tender, and Viper had never experienced anything like it. They fell asleep in each other’s arms. He awoke to the sound of her gentle weeping.
“Yo-Yo, what’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing. I should go.”
“Am I your first?”
She paused a long time before answering: “No.”
“Was it Peewee?”
“No. I already told you I never even let Peewee kiss me.”
“All right.”
“I should go.”
“I’ll drive you back to the penthouse.”
It was five in the morning. They got in Viper’s black Cadillac and headed downtown. Yo-Yo was silent for most of the ride. Finally, she said:
“This is going to be my last day as a maid. When the day is done, I’m gonna pack my bags and walk out of Mr. O’s penthouse. I might need a place to stay for a couple of nights before I can find an apartment of my own.”
“You can stay with me, Yo-Yo. But people might talk.”
“I don’t care. Besides, they won’t say much. Everybody in Harlem is afraid of you.”
“But you’re not?”
“Hell no, Clyde. You should be afraid of me.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, I don’t scare so easy.”
Viper pulled up to the door of Mr. O’s building. Yo-Yo kissed him softly on the lips.
“Bye, killer.”
* * *
A few hours later, sometime mid-morning, Viper was sitting in his basement office, daydreaming about Yo-Yo, when the phone rang. He expected to hear her voice.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Clyde …?”
“Yes?”
“This is Matilda, Mr. O’s head maid.”
“Matilda? What’s the matter?”
“You need to come to the penthouse right away.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
“No. Just come, please. Right now.”
The doorman at Mr. O’s building greeted Viper grimly. “Good morning, Mr. Morton.”
The elevator operator uttered his usual line in a solemn monotone: “Good morning, sir. I’ll take you straight to the top.”
When Matilda opened the penthouse door, Viper could see she had been crying.
“Please follow me, Clyde.”
There was an eerie quiet in Mr. O’s apartment. Matilda led Viper down the marble corridor. They passed through the room with the large wooden table—but none of the joint-rolling maids were there. Matilda then led him into the small, book-lined den, where she opened one of the three doors, a door he had never passed through. The first thing Viper saw in the huge room was a king-size bed with a canopy. The next thing that caught his eye was the body lying dead on the floor.
Mr. O lay on his back, arms spread, eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. His silk bathrobe was open, revealing the bony, pallid nakedness it had luxuriously concealed. There were four gaping gashes in his chest, one at the base of his throat, still oozing blood, staining and soaking into the Persian floor rugs.
“Ucch. Ucch. Ucch.”
Viper heard Yolanda before he saw her. The sound was like someone choking. Yolanda was curled up, her body wedged into the far corner, poised in a crouch. She held a letter opener, sharp as a dagger, in her fist. The blade was dripping blood. There was blood on Yo-Yo’s hands. Blood on her maid’s uniform. Blood streaked in her hair. Her eyes were wide and crazy. Animal. She was like a feral cat. Making these choking sounds.
“Ucch. Ucch. Ucch.”
Viper slowly walked across the room, past the overturned chair and small antique desk, the papers and pens, letters and envelopes, business cards, datebooks, and sundry documents strewn across the rugs. He was close to her now. Yo-Yo looked up at him, wild-eyed. He was not quite sure if she recognized him.
“Yo-Yo, drop the letter opener.”
She dropped it. He leaned over, very tenderly took hold of her, lifted her to her feet. He could feel her body shaking all over. This must have been what people meant when they spoke of a state of shock.
“Come with me,” Viper whispered. “Slowly. Don’t look at him, Yo-Yo.”
He walked her carefully across the room, holding her shivering body tucked into his, shielding her face with his hand so that she would not have to see one more time what she had done.
Matilda waited for them in the bedroom doorway. “Come, my angel,” she said.
They entered the den. “Matilda, get her out of those clothes,” Viper said. “Get her in a hot bath, then put her to bed.”
“We’re on it, Clyde.”
Back out in the marble corridor, one of the other uniformed maids appeared from out of nowhere, took hold of Yo-Yo, and whisked her away.
“Please come with me, Clyde,” Matilda said, leading him into the kitchen. The magnitude of all this was just beginning to sicken him.
“Thank you, Clyde,” Matilda said. “You’ve been absolutely heroic, but I still need your help.”
“What the hell happened here, Matilda?”
“Yolanda had been Mr. O’s daytime girlfriend for two years.”
Viper felt as if his head had just burst into flames. His entire head was a ball of fire.
“What?”
“She was well compensated for it.”
“You were pimping out your own niece?”
“I resent that word, and I will not be judged by the likes of you, Viper Clyde!”
Viper calmed himself. The head of flames cooled.
“But still you want my help.”
“Help Yolanda, Clyde!”
“You still haven’t told me what happened.”
“I don’t know! All I can guess is that she told Mr. O she was quitting today, and he put his hand on her one too many times, I don’t know. But she stabbed him to death and wouldn’t let anyone get near her, lest she stabbed them, too! Until you came along.”
“Mr. O would certainly have had appointments scheduled this afternoon. His datebook was open on the floor. People are going to be wondering where he is.”
“You’ve got to help Yolanda, Clyde. We’ve got to get rid of this body. Or else they’ll send our little Yo-Yo to the electric chair!”
“Calm down!”
“Please help us, Clyde!”
Viper looked around the vast, white-tiled kitchen. He saw the biggest home refrigerator he’d ever seen. The latest electric Frigidaire. He saw a big sharp meat cleaver hanging from a hook on the wall.
“Please, Clyde! I’m beggin’ you!”
“Shut the fuck up, Matilda! I’ve got a plan.”
* * *
Viper told Matilda exactly what they were going to do. It would be up to her to explain every detail to Mr. O’s staff, as well as to the doorman and the elevator operator. He left the building and drove back up to Harlem, called an emergency meeting with Pork Chop and Peewee on the rooftop of their dead boss’s nightclub.
“I always liked Mr. O,” Pork Chop said, a catch in his voice. “He always treated me fairly, with respect.”
“Me too,” Peewee said. “And now that crazy bitch has gone and killed him.”
“He was trying to rape her,” Viper said.
“Oh yeah?” Peewee snarled. “And how much was she gettin’ paid to get raped?”
“Whatever you wanna say about it,” Pork Chop said, “we gotta get rid of the body.”
“Why? Why we gotta save Yolanda? Let her ass fry for this!”
“Don’t you get it, Peewee?” Viper said. “If the cops find Mr. O dead in his penthouse, surrounded by nothin’ but black folks, they’ll investigate all of us.”
“He has to disappear,” Pork Chop said. “That way the cops will wonder what happened. And they’ll probably think it had something to do with Mr. O’s dealings downtown, with the I-talian mob.”
“At least they won’t come straight after us,” Viper said.
“I still say y’all just want to protect Yolanda,” Peewee said.
“Clyde’s got a good plan,” Pork Chop said. “We gotta get movin’. Are you with us, Peewee? Or do you want us to throw your tiny ass off this roof right now?”
No one spoke. The three friends heard the flow of traffic six floors below. Pigeons warbled. Seagulls screeched. Peewee seemed to wonder if Pork Chop was serious. Viper could see that Pork Chop was.
Finally, Peewee said: “Guess I’m with you.”
A little while later, the three of them pulled up to Mr. O’s building in a gray pickup truck. They were disguised, if you will, in gray coveralls and work caps emblazoned with the cursive script logo for “One-Eyed Willie’s Junkyard.” They walked into the lobby, wheeling a wide, six-foot-tall, empty wooden crate. The doorman acted like he’d never seen any one of them before.
“What can I do for you boys?”
“Mr. Orlinsky’s got a busted Frigidaire,” Pork Chop said. “We come to take it off his hands.”
“You watch how you move that thing, boys,” the elevator operator said, perhaps overacting just a bit. “Don’t scratch the paneling.”
“Oh, am I glad to see you boys!” Matilda said as she swung open the penthouse door. “Come on in.”
They parked the crate in the kitchen, and Matilda led them to the bedroom. Viper thought Pork Chop might shed a tear when he saw Mr. O’s body, but he was all business. He’d done this sort of thing before.
“Put your work gloves on,” he instructed Viper and Peewee, “and help me carry him into the bathroom.”
Matilda had already placed the meat cleaver and other tools beside the empty bathtub in which they dumped Mr. O. Viper left the bathroom and let Pork Chop do his work: the hacking and carving, the gutting and the bleeding. Most folks didn’t know how Oscar Bradley had gotten his nickname. He’d grown up on a hog farm in Arkansas. Pork Chop knew his way around a slaughter.
While Pork Chop did his job, Viper directed Peewee, Matilda and the maids in the cleanup operation. They cut up the bloody rugs and all the splattered pieces of paper into thousands of little strips and dumped the fragments in burlap sacks, along with Mr. O’s silk bathrobe and Yolanda’s maid uniform. They rearranged other Persian rugs, clean ones. They uprighted the chair and antique desk. They scrubbed all the bloodstains from the furniture. They scoured and polished the deadly letter opener.
“Anything we’ve forgotten?” Matilda asked.
“I don’t think so,” Viper said. Peewee had left the bedroom to go check in on Pork Chop. Viper took the occasion to ask Matilda, “How is Yolanda?”
