The Most Dangerous Dame

After the memorial, I accompanied the crowds that gathered to watch Scarlett’s casket lowered into the earth in a plot behind Flacco’s colossal mansion. In predictable New Haven fashion it rained cats and dogs. Flacco’s people were nice enough to supply umbrellas to keep everyone’s glad rags from getting soaked. Flacco lived on one of the highest residential islands in the Heights, with a breathtaking view of the surrounding Haven. The colossal buildings and lanes of flying traffic actually looked picturesque from the top, granting the city a regal appearance that bottom scrapers like me couldn’t appreciate.

The burial was purely ceremonial, as New Haven sanitary regulations mandated all bodies be cremated. Rich people buy plots for historical significance, a way to memorialize themselves so future generations can stare at their markers and statues and somehow gain a sense of heraldic self worth. The rest of us just get processed. I haven’t bothered to look up what happens to our remains, but I suspect the ashes are used to fertilize houseplants for the fur and feathers crowd.

Once the casket was buried with all the severity of a military service, the guests lingered in the unrestricted portions of the mansion. Many quickly lost their grieving faces and took to peering and sneering — two occupations rich folk perform in their sleep. Counterfeit smiles were scattered around as well, mostly by rubes on the lower rungs of the social ladder trying their best to connect with others who might aid them in their ascendance.

The ballroom area was larger than most folk’s houses. Normally used for the soirées Flacco threw now and again, it was lavishly styled and decorated with all the trimmings: scrolling staircases, mahogany floors, soaring ceilings, and dazzling chandeliers. Works of priceless art decorated the walls and original furniture was arranged throughout, polished and gleaming. Just calculating the cost was enough to set my teeth on edge. I figured I could afford to own half the room if I worked real hard for three or four centuries.

I sat at the bar as far back as I could get so I could watch unnoticed while I gabbed with Fats the Jazz Man. Fats was a staple at pretty much any social gathering that meant anything in New Haven, and performed at a ritzy joint called the Gaiden in his downtime. He saw a lot of stuff in his line of work but had the good sense to keep his mouth reserved for playing his instruments instead of spouting off about other folk’s business. That confidentiality made him a trusted member of many a circle.

Fats got his nickname from his girth, which he affectionately called his ‘love cushions’. His skin was dark as unadulterated coffee, his fingers thick and strong as if he spent his spare time punching through brick walls. But they defied reason when they touched the keys of a piano, nimble and light as he orchestrated his unique sound. His heavy jowls would inflate like balloons and blow pure soul through a trumpet or sax — jazzy grit that got into your skin and ignited memories of past times, dames you left behind, and words unspoken you wished you had the guts to say.

He held his trumpet in hand like a favorite pet as he gestured, laughing rich and loud. Despite the fact he played for snobs, Fats was a true salt. He might wear a tuxedo over his portly keg, but he saw himself as a blue-collar man with a working gig like everyone else.

“I swear, Mick.” Fats flashed a megawatt grin that showed off both sets of pearly whites. His voice was a gravelly rasp. “When you waltzed in the Gaiden dropping the name Tommy Tsunami… ” His shoulders shook with his laugh. “Even I knew it was time to pack it in.”

The barkeep discreetly approached with my Bulleit Neat and a gin and tonic for Fats. I grinned as we took our drinks. “Had to play it by ear with that one, Fats. I was in a jam and did what I had to do to get out.”

Fats raised his glass. “Here’s to doing what you got to do.”

After we sipped, I nodded to where Kane Jackson sat with a long-legged chocolate dame on his arm. “Word is Kane took over Tommy’s op.”

Fats nodded. “Managed to salvage it, anyway. Tommy took a big gamble and lost a lot with that caper you and him were caught up with. Kane was next up, and managed to recover most of what was left without any real fuss.”

I studied Kane from the corner of my eye. “How is he? Think he wants payback for what happened to his boss, or should I expect a fruit basket and a thank-you note?”

“Kane’s a businessman. Not as hungry as Tommy was. He’ll play the cards he has and won’t take any serious risks. Things will settle down with him in the driver’s seat.”

I downed the rest of the bourbon and tapped the bar for a reload. “What about the Gaiden? He inherit that, too?”

Fats’ laugh was more like a contented purr. “Now that’s an interesting situation. Kane didn’t like the conspicuousness of the Gaiden. Put it up for sale.”