Calypso

2

A dying man’s declaration is admissible evidence in court, but Ambrose Harding was far from dying. He was, in fact, a very lucky man. Had the bullet entered his back a little lower and a bit more to the right, it might have smashed his spinal column. Even had it missed his vertebrae and the posterior rib cage, it might have passed through a lung to shatter one of his anterior ribs and exit through the chest wall — in which case, he’d have undergone immediate surgery and would at this moment have been in the Intensive Care Unit with a respirator tube sticking out of his larynx, another tube draining his chest, and yet more tubes intravenously feeding him dextrose, water, and blood. Instead, and because the bullet had entered his back high on the left shoulder, missing the scapula and then only fracturing the left clavicle on exit, he was now on the hospital’s orthopedic floor, his left shoulder immobilized in a cast, but otherwise only mildly sedated and feeling pretty good, all things considered.

The detective who spoke to him was Steve Carella. They had tossed a coin to see who stayed at the scene in the rain, and Meyer had lost. Meyer sometimes suspected that Carella had a coin with two heads. But even when Meyer called heads, Carella won. Maybe Carella also had a coin with two tails. Or maybe Carella was just lucky. Ambrose Harding was certainly lucky. He told Carella how lucky he was, and Carella — who’d informed him at once that Chadderton was dead — assured him that he was lucky indeed.

“Tried to kill us both, that’s for damn sure,” Harding said. “Stood over me with the gun in his hand, aimin for my head. Pulled the trigger three times, standin over me like that. Thing was empty. Otherwise, I’d be dead.”

“How many shots were fired all together, do you know?”

“I wasn’t countin, man. I was runnin.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were walkin along, that’s what happened, talkin about the concert...”

“What concert?”

“George done a concert at a hall on Culver and Eighth. We were headin uptown to where I parked the car— What’s gonna happen to my car, man? Am I gonna go back there and find a parkin ticket on it?”

“Tell me where you parked it, I’ll make sure it isn’t tagged.”

“It’s in front of a pawnshop on Culver and Twelfth.”

“I’ll take care of it. When you say a concert...”

“George done a concert.”

“What kind of concert?”

“He sung calypso. You ever hear of King George?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“That’s George Chadderton. That’s the name he used. King George. I’m his business manager. Used to be, I guess,” he said, and shook his head.

“What time did the concert begin?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“And when did it end?”

“Eleven or so. Time we left the hall, it musta been, I don’t know, eleven-thirty. Had to get the bread, you know, say hello to some people...”

“How much did the job pay?”

“Three fifty. I took fifty as my commission, he was left with the three bills.”

“In hundreds?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, go on. You left the hall at...”

“Eleven-thirty, something like that. We were walkin toward the car, rainin like a bitch, talkin about the concert, you know, when all of sudden somebody cuts loose from the buildin there.”

“Did you see the person shooting?”

“Not just then.”

“When?”

“When he was standin over me tryin to kill me. I’d already been hit then, I was layin flat on the sidewalk.”

“Was he white or black?”

“I don’t know, man. I only saw that gun pointin at me.”

“How about his hand? Did you see his hand?”

“I saw his hand, yes.”

“White or black?”

“Damn if I know. All I saw was... first I saw his boots, black boots, and then these skinny pants legs, and then I looked up and saw that gun pointin at me.”

“Was the hand around the gun white or black?”

“I don’t know. He was wearin a black coat, the sleeve of the coat was black.”

“And the hand?”

“I don’t know, man. All I saw was that big mother gun lookin me in the eye.”

“How big?” Carella asked.

“Big, man.”

“Are you familiar with guns?”

“Only from the army.”

“Would this have been as big as a .45, for example?”

“Big as a cannon, man! When a gun’s pointin at your head, it’s a cannon, never mind what caliber it is. Anyway, why you askin me? Can’t your own people work that out? Don’t you have people can tell what kind of gun it was? The caliber and all that?”

“Yes, we have people who can do that.”

“Cause, man, all I know is I thought it was all over — goodbye, nice to’ve met you. I was layin there lookin up at that thing and thinkin, In two, three seconds there’s gonna be a hole in my head. Then click, man, the thing’s empty! He pulled that trigger three times tryin to do me in, but the gun was empty.”

“What happened then?”

“He ran off, that’s what. Heard people comin, figured he’d best get out of there, stead of standin in the rain with a gun ain’t doin the job.”

“Tell me about the concert,” Carella said. “How’d it go?”

“Beautiful.”

“No problems?”

“None. Crowd loved him.”

“Nobody heckling him from the audience or—”

“No, man, they were cheerin him, they loved him.”

“How many people would you guess were there?”

“Three-fifty, cordin to the guy runs the hall. But he’s a crook, and maybe he sold more at the door than he let on.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were spose to get a dollar a head. Capacity was four hundred, it sure looked to me like the place was near full.” Harding sighed, and then shook his head, and then sighed again. “Don’t seem to matter much now, does it?”

“What’s the man’s name? The one who runs—”

“Lou Davis.”

“White man?”

“Black.”

“Did you talk to him about the head count?”

“George tole him he was a crook, that’s all.”

“What’d he say?”

“Who? Davis? He laughed, that’s all.”

“What’s he look like, this Davis?”

“Short fat guy.”

“Short fat guy,” Carella repeated.

“Them legs in the skinny pants weren’t Lou Davis’s legs, if that’s what you’re thinkin.”

“Tell me more about the crowd.”

“I told you, they loved him.”

“Young crowd?”

“Not for the most part.”

“Any teenagers in it?”

“None that I saw. Kids don’t much dig calypso. With calypso, you got to think, man, you got to make an effort to hear what the man is sayin up there. Kids today, they don’t like to do much thinkin. They like it all spoon-fed. When George was up there layin it down, you had to use your head. You know what calypso is, are you familiar with calypso?”

“Only Harry Belafonte,” Carella said.

“Yes, well, that’s canned calypso. Real calypso is you make up your own stuff. Down in the islands, you sing another man’s calypso, they look down on you. George made up his own calypso, the way you spose to, the way it was in the beginning. You know how calypso started? With the slaves down there, man. They weren’t allowed to talk to each other while they were workin, so they used to sing out all the gossip, fool Whitey that way. George sang the new calypso. Social comment. Protest. Talkin about the scene. He was the king, man, he named himself right. He was King George. Three, four years from now, he’da been a big star. Man, I don’t know why this had to happen, I just don’t know why the hell this had to happen.”

The room went silent. Carella was suddenly aware of the rain drumming against the window. Somewhere on the street, a horn honked in what was clearly marked hospital zone.

“When you say social comment...”

“Yeah.”

“And protest...”

“Yeah.”

“Could he have annoyed anyone tonight?... Is it possible...?”

“Everybody, man. I know what you mean, and I’m tellin you everybody. That’s the whole point of calypso. To get people irritated, to start them thinkin about a situation.”

“People like who?”

“Everybody from the mayor on down.”

“He sang about the mayor tonight?”

“He sang about the mayor all the time. That was one of his biggest numbers, the one on the mayor.”

“Who else did he sing about tonight?”

“Why?” Harding asked, and grinned. “Don’t you think the mayor coulda been the one who killed him?”

“You see where I’m going—”

“Sure, I see where you’re goin. George done a song about cops, and he done one about rats and garbage, and he done another one about a neighborhood pusher, and one about a black girl peddlin her ass to white guys, and he done one about straightenin hair and usin skin bleaches... Man, he done the whole scene. That’s calypso.”

“What neighborhood?”

“Huh? Oh. Uptown. Diamondback.”

“In this song... did he name a specific pusher?”

“I don’t know who he was singin about,” Harding said.

“Well, you heard the song...”

“If a man says someone’s the mayor, then you got to know he’s singin about the mayor.”

“How about if a man says someone’s a pusher?”

“Then you know he’s singin about somebody’s a pusher.”

“Which pusher?”

“Who knows?” Harding said. “A pusher, that’s all.”

“Could any pusher in Diamondback...”

“I don’t know who mighta taken offense or not.”

“Was the song offensive?”

“George’s songs were social comment. He was telling what it’s like to be black in a white world.”

“Would you say he was singing about a specific pusher?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Anyone who, for example, might have taken offense and killed him?” Carella paused. “And tried to kill you as well?”

“I don’t know who that might’ve been.”

“Do you represent any musicians who are addicts?”

“Nope.”

“Was George an addict?”

“Nope. Smoked a little pot every now and then, but who don’t?”

“Who supplied him?”

“Oh, come on, man, you can buy pot anywhere in this city.”

“I know. But who’d George buy it from? Was he dealing with anyone on a steady basis?”

“I don’t think so, we never talked about it. Who talks about buyin pot? That’s the same as talkin about brushin your teeth.”

“I’m trying to find out whether this song about a pusher—”

“I know what you’re tryin to find out.”

“—might have identified a specific pusher George was dealing with.”

“To my knowledge, he did not have anybody like that. He wasn’t a pothead, he just smoked every now and then, same as everybody else I know. Pot’s legal now.”

“Not entirely. And dealing pot isn’t.”

“Even so, the song was about hard drugs. About a guy pushin heroin to young black kids.”

“George know anybody like that?”

“If you live in Diamondback, you got to know a hundred people like that.”

“Personally? Did he know anyone like that personally?”

“You ever been to Diamondback?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “I’ve been there.”

“Well, everybody up there knows who the pushers are.”

“But not everybody sang about them.” Carella said.

“I think you’re on the wrong track,” Harding said. “I don’t think George’s song put the finger on anybody. Not so’s he’d come after George and kill him. Anyway, I didn’t sing about anybody, and the guy tried to kill me, too.”

“He may have thought you’d seen him, and could identify him.”

“Maybe,” Harding said.

“These other musicians you represent. You said none of them are addicts. Were any of them messing even casually with hard drugs?”

“Nobody messes casually with hard drugs,” Harding said.

“Any of them experimenting?”

“You’re still on this pusher kick, huh?”

“I’m still on it,” Carella said.

“Why? Cause George was a musician?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Money. There’s a lot of money in drugs. If George was breaking somebody’s rice bowl, that could’ve been reason enough for murder.”

“I told you I don’t think the song fingered anybody in particular. It was about corruptin our kids, that’s all, our black kids.”

“These other musicians you represent—”

“Just one other client.”

“Who’s that?”

“A group called Black Monday.”

“Rock?”

“Rock.”

“Any rivalry there?”

“Between George and the group? None. They’re rock, he was calypso. That’s worlds apart, man.”

“This black hooker turning tricks for white men—”

“That’s all black hookers.”

“But not a specific hooker who might have been identified in George’s song, huh?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Could the person who shot you have been a woman?”

“Could’ve been, I don’t know.”

“But you said it was a man.”

“I figured somebody usin a gun had to be a man.”

“But you don’t have any idea who that man might have been?”

“None at all.”

“How close were you and George?”

“Close,” Harding said, and held up his right hand, the index finger and third finger pressed tightly together.

“Would he have told you if he’d received any threatening letters or phone calls?”

“He’da told me.”

“Did he mention anything like that?”

“Not a word.”

“Did he ever use any musicians when he—”

“Just himself and his own guitar.”

“Then he wouldn’t have owed money to any sidemen or—”

“Never used any sidemen. Not recently anyway. He used to have a band one time, but he’s been operating as a single for the past six years.”

“What was the name of the band?”

“Don’t know. That was before my time. I only started managing George when he went out on his own.”

“Would you know who was in the band?”

“His brother was in it, but if you’re thinkin of lookin him up, he’s long since gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Split seven years ago.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Don’t know. Maybe back to Trinidad.”

“Is that where they’re from originally?”

“George and his brother were born here, but their father came from Trinidad. Maybe Santo went back lookin for his roots. His father split, too, you see. Longer ago than Santo did.”

“Santo? Is that the brother’s name?”

“Yeah. That’s Spanish. Their mother was from Venezuela.”

“She still alive?”

“She died six years ago. George used to say she died of a broken heart. Santo splittin and all.”

“Was this a younger brother, an older brother?”

“Younger, but I don’t know his exact age. You’ll have to ask— Oh, Jesus. Chloe don’t know yet, does she? Oh, Jesus.”

“Chloe?”

“George’s wife. Oh, Jesus, who’s gonna tell Chloe?”