A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle Page B

second. “You don’t seem too thrilled to see her.”
    â€œShe threw me over for a football player.”
    Jimmy’s girl clucked, Jimmy smirked. Jeannie remained silent. I drank my rum and coke and tried not to look. It wasn’t easy.
    Jeannie had been girl-next-door pretty as a kid, all freckles and elbows. But she was a grown-up beauty now, composed, almost elegant. A grown-up beauty married to a bald Greek ona double date with a mobster, his moll and yours truly. What in the hell?
    The waitress served a bucket of smoked gizzards, a wad of paper napkins and a bowl of shimmering hot sauce. “How did you peg me for a Fats Navarro fan?”
    â€œAnyone who hates Glenn Miller can’t be all bad,” said Jimmy, hot sauce all down his chin.
    I had never said I hated Glenn Miller. I
didn’t
hate Glenn Miller. Hating Major Glenn Miller, whose single-engine Norseman disappeared over the English Channel in 1944, was tantamount to treason. I had merely groaned and turned down the volume when a Miller tune came on the car radio while we were make our shakedown rounds. “American Patrol” was a catchy little number built around drums and bugles that made patrol duty sound like bubble blowing night at the Trocadero.
    Jimmy was nowhere near as dumb as he looked. He paid attention. Which meant he knew I had tried to have him tailed, and probably knew I’d tried to get him axed. The cops didn’t much care what happened down here in Dingetown, especially after sunset. I rested the heel of my hand on the butt of my P38.
    A man almost as wide as he was high stepped up on the bandstand and spread his arms. This would be Jolly Jack.
    â€œDirect from Key West by way of New York City,” he said in a thunderous baritone, “Jolly Jack’s is mighty proud to present Mister Theodore ‘Fats’ Navarro and his Be-Bop Boys!”
    The crowd erupted, the bassist, drummer and pianist dug into an up-tempo tune and Jolly Jack looked around for his star attraction. Jimmy and his girl did likewise.
    I chanced a look at Jeannie. She met my eyes, cool as a cuke, and winked. I removed the heel of my hand from the butt of my gun. If Jeannie was jake with this sideways setup then I guess I was too.
    The crowd stirred. The man of the hour made his way to the bandstand, slapping hands with the patrons, horn tucked underhis arm. He was just a kid, a chubby-cheeked kid. He took center stage and waved away a curtain of green-gray smoke, some of it from cigarettes. The rhythm section backed into a standard 4/4.
    â€œLet’s warm this joint up,” said Fats Navarro and swelled his cheeks like a fireplace bellows.
    The resulting long-held low note rattled empties on the club tables. He picked up steam from there, always half a beat ahead, the crowd leaning forward, wondering if the piano, bass and drums could catch up.
    Fats switched gears. His eyes got big and he began to talk through his trumpet. That’s what it sounded like, I swear. The rhythm section kept up a backbeat as Fats Navarro gave out with his sermon, his soliloquy.
    The audience pricked up their ears, this chubby-cheeked kid was saying things that needed to be said. I dug the jive-crazy intensity of it but, watching the dark rapt faces of the crowd, I also felt out of place, felt like a spy. Whatever message Fats Navarro was sending out through the bell of his trumpet wasn’t meant for me.
    He went on for a long time, whispering seductively, snarling in anger, finally winding down to an extended breathless pleading that froze the crowd in their seats and shamed the big talkers at the bar into silence. Fats gathered himself and concluded with a high C that had dogs howling all the way to Akron.
    The crowd went nuts. Jimmy pointed at me with his cig, I nodded my appreciation. The light-skinned hostess huddled with Fats on the bandstand. He nodded and slipped something in his pocket.
    â€œSpecial request from the