Chapter 10

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Frank eased his truck along Coventry Boulevard, a hip street of brick stores, bars, and restaurants in Cleveland Heights, searching for a curbside parking space. Lady Luck smiled, and a car pulled out. He squeezed into the spot, about three storefronts from Record Rendezvous, his destination. Ecstatic, he pumped his fist.

Nice. Better to be lucky than good.

After checking his side mirror, Frank stepped onto the street, strutting like ‘Lucky’ Luciano in his monkey suit, though his twelve-year-old pickup, beat-up and vandalized, destroyed the illusion. He was no urbane killer. But then Frank realized that, like the mafioso, he WAS ducking the law.

His mouth quirked. So, maybe I am like Luciano. A bit at least...

He chuckled at the absurdity, halting to gnaw off a chaw and feed the meter change. As the tobacco softened and the dial registered ‘TWO HOURS,’ he scanned the street for a payphone to call his middle son Paul, spotting one outside of Medic Drugs.

He fed the phone change, too.

Paul answered, and Frank pleaded his case. Paul said that his sofa was always open, and they shared a laugh when Paul called Frank “Rocky,” performing a silly “Yo, Adrian” bit, sounding like the Italian star who played Rocky and talked like he had rocks in his mouth. Vintage Paul: upbeat and silver-tongued.

Smart guy, Frank thought, rolling the chew around his jaw, blowing into his hands, warming them. He understands Dale Carnegie, even without training. He’s got the knack, and I’m a hack.

Next, Frank called Maddy to tell her. No answer. Odds were, she was dropping Peggy at Severance, so he shrugged and headed to Record Rendezvous, where he pawed through crate after crate of records, some new, some used. Nothing grabbed him. Stranger still, he rejected the two albums he’d come for: a three-volume Lester Young compilation, and a mint-condition Thelonious Monk.

He pondered, puzzled. Him, a music freak in a record store with two albums he wanted, but buying diddley-squat?

Weird.

Unsatisfied, Frank figured he’d grab a cup of coffee at the nearby Arabica coffee shop. Maybe some joe would perk him. He pushed through the door, buttoning his overcoat against the blast of frigid air, and ran headlong into a pale, rail-thin man dressed in coal-black who smelled of sour cider.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Watch yourself,” the man said, his voice scratchy and challenging.

Taken aback, Frank held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, didn’t see you, my bad.”

“Bet your ass it’s your bad.” The man’s beady eyes skewered Frank before darting towards the street. “And, they don’t need your help.”

Confused, Frank did a double-take. “Say what, now?”

The man scoffed, his nostrils twitching, and chin-pointed to the curb, saying, “Truck’s yours, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The coloreds. They don’t need you.”

Frank grinned, meek and embarrassed. “Oh, you mean the graffiti? Duked it out with a jackass who—”

The black-clad man cut him off, his voice harsh and face sharp as an ax. “Pay attention, you dumbass n****r loving oaf. I said the coloreds don’t need you, don’t need white bleeding hearts trying to fix them. As if they need fixing. And if they do, they’ll fix themselves.”

“I know they don’t—But that doesn’t mean—I mean…” Frank said, but halted, tongue-tied and irate, at once furious and cowed.

The man cackled, his face twisting into a cruel grin. And then he spun on his heel, as if victorious, and shot down the street, leaving Frank gape-jawed and shaking his head, confused and smelling rotten apples.

What the fuck was that?

Frank moved towards the coffee shop, the man’s idiocy at once amusing in its banality and annoying in its rudeness. He spat a stream of tobacco juice down the storm sewer. A gust of wind rustled a Cleveland Press someone had discarded but missed the garbage can. He swooped it up, thumbing through and finding it whole, including the sports page. Nice. He’d need something to read over coffee since he had almost two hours to kill.

And then, as the wind surged, threatening to rip the paper free, Frank halted, a lightbulb firing in his head. He remembered his early morning conversation with Umberto over the Plain Dealer about the bum dying on Prospect.

In a flash, he knew what was bothering him.

It wasn’t the cops. Nor was it Mozart and monkey suits and Severance Hall instead of the World Series, Buckeyes, and Browns.

Instead, he’d forgotten his promise to Umberto and Boots to check on Corny.

He looked at his watch. He could visit Corny’s place in East Cleveland and then catch Peggy in University Heights with time to spare. So he tossed the paper in the garbage and turned back towards his truck. He pulled from his spot, pausing for a red light before turning onto Mayfield Road. He sensed more than heard someone screaming, and he turned to the pale, black-clad man who hollered Frank's way, his hands around his mouth.

Frank rolled down his window. “What?”

The guy popped Frank off, laughing. Frank tightened his jaw and stewed, but wouldn’t give the rude bastard the benefit of a response. The light turned green, and Frank spat out the window before turning towards East Cleveland. The black-clad guy stood, a spiteful manikin still tapping his pocket, and pivoted as Frank turned, the mock salute tracking him.