A Ticket to the Boneyard

Danny Boy's table was at ringside. There was an ice bucket on the table, a bottle of Stolichnaya resting in it. Danny Boy wore a vest boldly patterned in vertical stripes of yellow and black; otherwise his attire matched the band and the headwaiter. He had a tumbler of vodka in front of him and a girl at his right. She was a blonde, her hair cut in an extreme punk style, long on one side, cropped close to the skull on the other. Her dress was black, and cut to show a lot of cleavage. She had one of those greedy little hill-country fox faces, the kind you get growing up in a house with three or four broken cars permanently installed on the front lawn.



I looked at her, then at Danny Boy. He shook his head, glanced at his watch, nodded to a chair. I sat down, having been informed that the girl was not the person I'd come to meet, that the person in question would be along in a little while.



The set lasted another twenty minutes, during which time no one at our table said a word, nor was there any audible conversation at the surrounding tables. From where I sat the crowd looked to be about half black and half white. I saw one man I recognized. He'd been a pimp when I first knew him, and since then he'd gone through what you could call a mid-life crisis, I suppose, and re-emerged as a dealer in African art and antiquities, with a shop on upper Madison Avenue. I'd heard he was doing well, and I could believe it. He'd always done superbly as a pimp.



When the trio left the stage, a waitress came over with a fresh drink for Danny Boy's companion, something in a tall glass with fruit and a paper parasol in it. I asked if they had coffee. "Just instant," she said apologetically. I told her that would be fine and she went off to fetch it.



Danny Boy said, "Matt, this is Crystal. Crystal, say hello to Matthew."



We said hello to each other, and Crystal assured me it was a pleasure to meet me. Danny Boy asked me what I thought of the group and I said they were fine.



"Piano player's special," he said. "Sounds a little bit like Randy Weston, a little like Cedar Walton. You can hear it especially when the other two sit out and he plays solo. He played one whole set solo the other night. Very special, very tasteful."



I waited.



"Our friend'll be along in about five minutes," he said. "I thought you might like to come early and catch a set. Nice place, wouldn't you say?"



"Very nice."



"They treat me right. And you know me, Matthew. Creature of habit, when I like a place I'm there all the time. Every night, or pretty near."



The coffee came. The waitress set it down and hurried off with drinks for somebody else. They didn't serve during the set, so they made up for it by working feverishly during the breaks. A lot of the customers ordered two or three drinks at a time. Some, like Danny Boy, had a bottle on the table. That used to be illegal, and very likely still is, but it was never a hanging offense.



Danny Boy poured more vodka into his glass while I stirred my coffee. I asked what he knew about the person we were waiting for.



"Meet him first," he said. "Look him over, hear him out."



At one o'clock I saw the headwaiter coming our way with a man in tow. I knew he was the fellow we were waiting for because he was all wrong for the club. He was a thin white man wearing a houndstooth sport jacket over a navy-blue corduroy shirt, and he looked out of place in a room full of black men dressed like bank vice presidents. He appeared to feel out of place, too, and he stood awkwardly with one hand on the back of his chair. Danny Boy had to tell him to sit down a second time before he pulled the chair back and sat on it.



As he sat down, Crystal got to her feet. It must have been her cue. She smiled all around and threaded her way among the tables. Our waitress came over right away. I said I'd have more coffee, and the new arrival ordered a beer. They had six brands on hand and the waitress named them all. He looked irritated by the need to make a decision. "Red Stripe," he said. "What's that?" She told him it was Jamaican. "That's fine," he said. "Bring me one of those."



Danny Boy introduced us, first names only. His was Brian. He put his forearms on the table and looked down at his hands, as if to make sure that his nails were clean. He was about thirty-two, with a lumpy round face that looked to have taken its share of punches over the years. His hair, a dark blond, was going thin in front.



You could see he'd done time. I can't always tell, but some guys might as well be wearing a sign.



His beer came, and my coffee. He picked up the longneck bottle and read the label, frowning as he did so. Then, ignoring the glass the waitress had provided, he took a drink from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.



"Jamaican," he said. Danny Boy asked him how it was. "It's all right," he said. "All beer's the same." He put the bottle down and looked at me. "You're looking for Motley," he said.



"You know where he is?"



He nodded. "I seen him."



"Where do you know him from?"



"Where else? The joint. We were both on E-block. Then he went in the hole for thirty days, and when he got out they switched him somewhere else."



"Why did they put him in solitary?"



"A guy got killed."



Danny Boy said, "That's the punishment for murder? Thirty days' solitary confinement?"



"They couldn't prove it, they didn't have no witnesses, but everybody knew who done it." His eyes touched mine, then slid to the side. "I know who you are," he said. "He used to talk about you."



"I hope he said nice things."



"Said he was going to kill you."



"When did you get out, Brian?"



"Two years ago. Two years and a month."



"What have you been doing since then?"



"This and that. You know."



"Sure."



"What I gotta do. I started usin' again when I got outta the joint, but now I'm in a methadone program. I get day work out of the state employment, or I'll turn a buck. You know how it is."



"I know. When did you see Motley?"



"Must of been a month ago. Maybe a little more."



"You talk to him?"



"What for? No. I seen him on the street. He was comin' down the steps of this house. Then I seen him a few days later and he's goin' into the house. Same house."



"And that was over a month ago?"



"Say a month."



"And you haven't seen him since?"



"Sure I did. A couple of times, on the street in the neighborhood. Then I got the word, somebody's lookin' for the guy, so I hung around a little. Stood on the corner where I could keep an eye on the house. Had coffee next door to it so I could see who's goin' in and out. He's still there." He showed me a bashful smile. "I asked some questions, you know? There's a broad he's living with, it's her apartment. I found out, you know, which apartment it is."



"What's the address?"



He shot a look at Danny Boy, who nodded. He took another pull from his bottle of Red Stripe. "He better not know where this came from."



I didn't say anything.



"All right," he said. "Two eighty-eight East Twenty-fifth, that's near the corner of Second. There's a coffee shop on that corner serves you a good meal reasonable. Good Polish food."



"Which apartment?"



"Fourth floor in the back. Name on the bell is Lepcourt. I don't know if that's the broad's name or what."



I wrote all this down, closed my notebook. I told Brian that I wouldn't want Motley to know about our conversation.



He said, "No fuckin' way, man. I ain't talked to him since they switched him outta E-block. I ain't gonna talk to him now."



"You haven't said a word to him?"



"What for? I seen him, you know, an' I reckanized him right off. He's got this funny-shaped head, kind of a long face. If you seen him once you'd never miss him. Me, I got a face your eyes'll slide right over. He looked at me the other day, Motley, looked at me on the street. His eyes never even slowed down. He didn't reckanize me." Another shy smile. "A week from today you won't reckanize me."



He seemed proud of this. I looked at Danny Boy, who flashed two fingers at me. I got out my wallet and took out four $50 bills. I folded them, palmed them, and reached across the table to slip them into Brian's hand. He took the money and dropped his hand into his lap, holding the money out of sight while he had a look at it. When he looked up the smile was back. "That's decent," he said. "That's real decent."



"One question."



"Shoot."



"Why rat him out?"



He looked at me. "Why not? We was never friends. A guy's gotta turn a buck, you know that."



"Sure."



"Anyway," he said, "he's a real bad fucker. You know that, don't you? Shit, you gotta know it."



"I know it."



"That woman he's living with? I bet he kills her, man. Maybe he killed her already."



"Why?"



"I guess he likes it or something. I heard him talkin' about it one time. He said women didn't last, they got used up quick. After a while you had to kill 'em and get a new one. I never forgot that, not just what he said but how he said it. You hear all kinds of shit, but I never heard nothing like that." He took another pull on his beer and put the bottle down. "I gotta go," he said. "I owe for the beer or are you taking care of that?"



"It's taken care of," Danny Boy said.



"I only drank half of it. It's okay, though. Anybody wants the rest of it, feel free." He got to his feet. "I hope you get him," he said. "A guy like that don't belong on the street."



"No, he doesn't."



"The thing is," he said, "he don't belong in the joint, either."



I said, "What do you think?"



"What do I think, Matthew? I think he's one of Nature's noblemen. Generous, too. I don't suppose you'd care to finish his bottle of beer."



"Not just now."



"I think I'll stay with Stoly myself. What do I think? I don't think he told you any lies. Your friend may not still be on Twenty-fifth Street, but it won't be because Brian tipped him off."



"I think he's scared of him."



"So do I."



"But somebody else gave a very convincing performance of fear the other night, and then she led me right into a trap." I ran down what had happened on Attorney Street. He thought about it while he refilled his glass.



"You walked right into it," he said.



"I know."



"This doesn't have that kind of feel to it," he said. "Then again, our Brian didn't show up with character references. Still, you'll want to exercise caution."



"For a change."



"Quite. If it's not a setup, I don't think he'll sell you out. I don't think he'd want to get that close to Motley." He drank. "Besides, you paid him well."



"A duece was more than he expected to get."



"I know. There's an advantage, I've found, in giving people more than they expect to get."



That wasn't a cue, but it reminded me. I opened my wallet in my lap and found a pair of hundreds. I passed them to him and he smiled.



"As Brian would say, that's real decent. But there's no need to pay me now. Why not wait until you find out if his information is valid? Because you don't owe me anything if it's not."