Kansas City Noir (24 page)

“I mean, who is Major Player?” Charlie said. “What’s his story?”

Marcus dunked his mop in the suds thoughtfully. “Player’s like the godfather,” he said. “You want to be a rapper, you pretty much gotta go through him.”

“You know him?” Charlie wanted to know.

A smile crept across Marcus’s lips. “I seen him around.”

“Where’d he get the kind of money he’s flashing around on TV?”

Marcus shrugged. “They say he use the music as a front for drug money. Streets talk, but half of it’s bullshit.”

“More like three-fourths,” Charlie said, and grinned. He looked down at the bucket. “Don’t let me hold you up.” He took two steps toward the back door, then swiveled around again. “If someone wanted to find Major Player,” Charlie asked, “where’d they go looking?”

“If I was you,” Marcus said, stabbing at the suds with the mop, “I’d try 9th Wonder.”

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie was staring up at 9th Wonder’s green neon sign, the letters reflected in reverse off the lenses of his glasses. The wood-shingled building stood alone on a block where other structures sagged under the weight of time, neglect, and rot, ultimately succumbing to the city’s bulldozers. This place stood impervious to the surrounding decay, its service to vice like an invisible force field. Inside, 9th Wonder was one part head shop, one part adult video emporium, and one part urban record store.

Charlie pushed through the jangling door whose glass was completely papered over with concert posters and triple-X handbills. He propelled himself past shelves jammed with glass bongs, walking straight ahead to the front counter. At its zenith stood a woman with a wrist-thick, blue-black ponytail and press-on nails like neon daggers.

The clerk peered down with practiced disinterest. She raised one eyebrow, skinny as a spider’s leg. It seemed to indicate that Charlie should speak first.

“I’m here to see Mr., uh, Player,” Charlie said.

Charlie got the feeling that the clerk knew a thousand different ways to say no. Before she had a chance to choose one, he blurted, “I have a business proposition for him.”

The clerk unfurled a long, bony finger. Its day-glo nail pointed in the direction of a set of emerald curtains. Charlie thanked her and plunged into the green velvet darkness.

On the other side of the curtain, three men sat at a round card table in a cigar-smoke haze, a heap of money between them. At Charlie’s entrance, two of the men scraped their chairs back and stood. Both had fists the size of hams.

“Relax, fellas,” the still-seated man said. Charlie heard the unmistakable crack of a gun being cocked. “Can we help you?”

Charlie swallowed. “I’m not sure I’m in the right place, but my name is Charlie Price and I came to find Major Player.”

“You found him,” the owner of the voice said, leaning forward, into the light. “Did you say Charlie Price?”

“Yes.” Charlie could hear his heart beating in his ears.

“Man, get over here!” Major Player said, pushing back his chair with a screech. The rap mogul danced around the card table to throw his arms around him. Charlie patted the man’s back awkwardly. Had he been wearing a tie, Major Player’s head would be level with the knot.

“It is a pleasure to be in the presence of the man responsible for the finest burnt ends in Killa City, yahdidamean?” Player said, gesturing for Charlie to take a seat at the table. Charlie reached for the back of a chair, his eyes bouncing between Player’s two thick-necked bookends.

“Mind if we had some privacy?” Charlie asked Player.

With a wave of one sparkly hand, Player dismissed his goons. When the green curtain’s swishing ceased, Charlie took a deep breath and began: “I came to ask you what you’d do if you were me.” He flourished Portello’s folder. As he passed it to Player, he was embarrassed to notice the wet spots on the paper from his sweaty palms.

Player reached under his XXL T-shirt and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. His lips moved as he scanned the page. After several moments, he slammed the glasses down.

“WHAT? Aw, hell naw. Them fake-Gucci-ass wannabe Corleones ain’t gonna hustle a BLACK business owner in MY city.” Beads of sweat popped out around Player’s collar as he grew more heated. “Nobody does you like this, Charlie Price, yahdidamean?”

“Right. Wait, what?” Charlie said. There was no telling where this was going, but something about it felt right.

“Here’s what I’m fittin’ to do for YOU,” Player continued, his voice tremulous like a Pentecostal preacher about to produce a snake. “I’ma work this out with the Eye-talians. This money ain’t nothin’ to me.”

Charlie didn’t know what to say. “How will I repay you?” he asked.

“Oh, you’ll repay me, believe that,” Player replied, winking. “But who’d you rather owe, some Louisville-Slugger, kneecap-bustin’ Eye-talian, or your ol’ friend Major Player?”

Charlie got up from his chair, botched a fist bump with the mogul’s outstretched knuckles, and floundered back through the green curtain.

“And don’t ever say Major Player don’t look out for you, fam,” Player called after him.

That night, he took his wife out for dinner. “Anyplace you want, dear,” he told her. “Just not barbecue.”

* * *

When Charlie strolled into Price’s the following evening, it was a couple hours after the dinner rush. An unfamiliar black Escalade was parked in the lot next to Marcus’s Caprice.

Inside, there was more commotion than usual. Charlie soon saw why: Major Player was standing on the bar, directing his twin goons, who each held an end of a tape measure.

“See, if we take out these two booths and raise the floor a foot, this here becomes a stage, with a pole right here,” he was saying to the goons, and to Marcus, who stood behind the bar, nodding.

Charlie waited in the doorway until he was noticed.

“
My
man,” Player said, hopping off the bar and striding over, fist poised for a bump.

Charlie ignored the fist. “What’s all this?”

“Well, I been thinking,” Player said. “I’ve always wanted to get into the restaurant business. And last night, I saw our boy Portello and squared you with him, whoop-de-whoop. So I figure now I’m a partner. And hoo-wee, we got some updating to do in this mu’fucka.”

Player grabbed the first server who passed by the wrist. “See here—what’s your name, gorgeous?” he asked.

“Shanay,” she answered shyly.

“We gotta sexify this,” Player said, spinning her like a two-stepper. “This buttoned-up-collared-shirt business, this don’t do nothin’ for your figure, baby. We need to be showing off more of this.” He traced the curves of Shanay’s backside, and she giggled. “Some little shorts, and something low-cut on top. Give the people something extra on they lunch hour.”

Player released the girl’s wrist and paced slowly in front of the bar. “We gotta do something about the music,” he said. The diamond
P
in his ring sparkled as he placed his index finger behind one ear. “This Charlie Parker shit has got to go. I don’t know if this was the ol’ man’s taste,” he went on, looking to the black-and-white photo of Charlie Sr. standing proudly in front of the Price’s sign, which had hung behind the bar for as long as Charlie could remember. “But we need to get the 808s bumping. This could be a hoppin’ after-hours spot. Twelve bucks a shot of Hennessy, boy, we’ll need an armored truck every night when we leave, yahdidamean?”

Suddenly, Charlie needed some air. He gave Player a weak smile. “I got a few calls to make. Excuse me,” he said, and retreated through the kitchen doors.

Charlie closed the door to the business office and phoned Sam, who answered after a dozen rings.

“Sam, this is bad,” Charlie whispered. His voice sounded panicky and he didn’t care. “Major Player—he’s a rapper, or something—he bought the debt from Portello. But now he wants to be a partner in Price’s. He wants to change everything, make this place some sort of—rap clubhouse, or something.” He gasped for breath. “My dad will roll in his grave. My wife will have a stroke.”

Sam was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Well, if he wants to be a partner, invite him up to the farm. We can explain things to him so he understands.”

Charlie exhaled heavily. “You’re always right, Sam. I hope you’re right now.”

For the next hour, Charlie cleared his head by playing solitaire on the office computer. When things seemed sufficiently quiet on the other side of the door, he headed to the kitchen. Inside the walk-in freezer, he chose a hunk of roast beef the size of his head, pulled back the plastic, and prepared to cut himself a snack’s worth on the meat slicer. As the blade started whirring, Charlie heard the
snik-snik
sounds of metal against metal. He cut the motor. The circular blade looked painfully ragged. Ignoring the growling in his stomach, Charlie engrossed himself in the task of breaking down the slicer to free the blade for sharpening.

Minutes later, the aluminum double doors of the kitchen burst open, and there stood Major Player, teetering like a man on a dinghy. A bottle of Hennessy dangled from the fingers of one hand, the last inch of amber liquid sloshing against the glass.

“I hada ideal,” Player said. “I invited the whooole crew from the label to come out and celebrate my new business vulture.”

Charlie mumbled something, not making eye contact.

Player steadied himself and regarded Charlie with bloodshot eyes. “I get this vibe from you, Charlie,” the rapper slurred. “I don’t mean no disrespect, but I’m not sure yerr bein’ so receptical to my ideals.”

Charlie whirled around, preparing the words in his head.
Nah, Player
, he planned to say.
This place is my legacy. We’ll have to find some other way to settle this debt.

The drunk man lurched forward, trying to throw a chummy arm around Charlie’s shoulders. Charlie took a step and caught Player under the arms as he toppled over. The Hennessy bottle crashed on the concrete floor.

“Put it on my tab,” Player grinned.

Something warm and wet slid down Charlie’s arm. He pulled back. The meat slicer’s blade, still in his grip, dripped with blood.

Player stared at the object in Charlie’s hand, then reached up and felt the slit in the armpit of his T-shirt. He pulled down on the fabric, tearing it wider, to reveal a gash that spurted in time with his heartbeat.

“The fuck …” Player said, pitching forward.

Charlie set the bloody blade on the counter and ran for the telephone in his office. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back to the kitchen. A streak of blood was making its way from Player’s shuddering body to the drain in the center of the floor.

Charlie walked slowly back into the kitchen. He stepped gingerly over the trail of blood, tiptoed past Player, whose body now lay still, and peered out the cloudy window in the back door. The black Escalade sat, still parked, but Charlie could see that the driver’s-side window was open. One of Player’s goons was at the wheel, his head lolled back against the headrest.

Charlie hit the unlock button on his key at the same time as he forced the door open. He darted on the tips of his toes to his PT Cruiser, got in, started the engine, and backed it from his parking space up to Price’s back door. He cut the engine and got back out, slamming the door hard. The goon’s head jerked up at the sound.

“Hey, man,” Charlie said, feigning calm. “What you still doin’ here?”

The goon grunted. “Waitin’ on Player,” he replied, rubbing his eyes.

“Man, Player left,” Charlie said. “He was pretty gone, you know, off that Hennessy.” He laughed. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I took him home.”

The goon blinked. “Aiight,” he said finally, turning the key in the Escalade.

Charlie waved at the diminishing taillights before heading back inside.

Once the back door shut, Charlie focused. He unfurled four black trash bags. He straddled Player’s still-warm body and shimmied a bag under the man’s Chuck Taylors, all the way to his waist. He shoved Player’s head and shoulders into another bag. Then he threw an additional bag over each for good measure, and cinched all four bags at the dead rapper’s waist with the cotton string used for cooking roasts. He gathered the entire, unwieldy mass up in his arms and hauled it out the back door.

The PT Cruiser’s trunk was roomy. Slamming the trunk shut, Charlie heaved a sigh and looked around. At the bus stop twenty yards away, a bum hiccupped, then saluted. Charlie hesitated, then saluted in return before going back inside.

A white bucket was the cooking staff’s solution for collecting the water that leaked from the bar’s soda fountain. Charlie grabbed it and heaved its contents across the kitchen’s concrete floor. Pink water swirled around the drain.

Charlie rinsed the bloody slicer blade in the dish sink and stuck it on a handful of clean rags in the drying rack. He wiped up the spatters of blood from the countertops and, as an afterthought, the tops of his own shoes.

Then Charlie turned off all the lights, locked the doors, and peeled out in the PT Cruiser, spraying gravel. The bum at the bus stop burped and waved.

Charlie called Sam from his cell phone five minutes from the farm. It was two o’clock in the morning. Sam answered after seven rings. He was waiting outside when Charlie pulled up.

“Sarge,” Sam said to Charlie as soon as he opened the door.

Charlie turned off the car but left the headlights on. Wordlessly, Sam and Charlie heaved Major Player’s plastic-bound carcass from the trunk to the edge of Sarge’s section of pen.

Sarge, the boar that had fathered Price’s latest passel of pork, was a ravenous, foul-tempered beast that had to be separated from his progeny, lest he eat the baby swine.

Sam mopped sweat from his eyes. He yanked the cotton string, pulled away the trash bags, and eyed the remains. Leaning down, he grabbed one of Player’s bloodstained hands and began to yank.

“What are you doing?” Charlie hissed, looking away.

“Here,” Sam said, tossing him something that glinted in the car’s headlights. Charlie missed, and felt around in the moist weeds at his feet until he came up with something small, gold, and glittering. He held it in the headlight’s beam. The ring, with its diamond
P
, spat light in his eyes. He shoved it down deep in his pocket and looked to Sam.