Jack of Diamonds (82 page)

I smiled. ‘I know one other!’

‘No, Jack, there are some things . . . I knew you were safe in hospital and were not going to die. The rest was Mafiosi business. I refused to cooperate; that is, beyond arranging for the private ambulance and the doctor for Sammy, and that was always going to happen with his release from hospital that day and could be explained. Lenny did it all himself, even arranging for a case of beer to be sent to every truck driver and workman involved, with an extra little envelope attached. The envelopes, he got Mr Sanders to do.’

‘And through all of this not a policeman in sight?’ I suggested.

Bridgett gave a bitter laugh. ‘No, you’re wrong. According to the staff, two motorcycle traffic cops directed traffic, to allow the trucks to turn onto the site. I daresay they’ll have no trouble taking their kids to California for the holidays.’

‘Well, thank God you kept your nose clean, Mrs Fuller. I should have known better than to suggest . . .’ I didn’t complete the sentence.

Bridgett looked serious and, once again, on the edge of tears. ‘When I was forbidden to accompany the three of them to Sammy’s basement, I became terribly distraught. Jim-Jay Bullnose was the only one who knew where it was or, I swear, I would have tried to get to you. Jack,
please
believe I would have happily implicated myself, thrown caution to the winds and gone with them in the hope of finding you safe and sound.’

‘No, no, I’m glad you didn’t,’ I said; then, seeing her distress, I fell silent, gulping back my own tears, though I could feel one errant teardrop sliding down my cheek. ‘Oh, shit!’ I muttered, reaching out and taking her hand. She bent over as if to hold my hand against her cheek but then suddenly pulled back. ‘Jack, I’ll resign, I’ll look after you forever, if you’ll have me. We’ll leave. I’ve got my two points. Oh, Jack, how can I ever —’

‘Shush! I’m a big boy. No, no, Bridgett. That wouldn’t work. Don’t even think about it! I made the decision to stay, all on my own,’ I said, recovering. The last thing I wanted was for her to settle for me out of a sense of obligation.

‘Jack, I’ve thought of nothing else. I was in a terrible state, thinking I was letting you down by not coming to find you. I had no sleep that night. I’ll do anything —’

‘You’ll do nothing, you hear? Nothing of the sort! How do you think I’d feel?’

‘Oh, Jack, this is too awful for words.’

I had never seen her like this. ‘Bridgett, pull yourself together. Tell me what you did New Year’s Eve without me there.’ Perhaps that would distract her.

She sniffed and reached into her sleeve for a handkerchief, and blew her nose. The composed Mrs Fuller emerged almost at once. ‘I can’t say it was easy preparing for New Year’s Eve, acting as if nothing had happened.’ Bridgett brushed at her tears and smiled, now looking at me in a distinctly mischievous way. ‘But the joint was jumping!’

‘Oh, so you found another piano player, did you?’ I said, pretending to be miffed.

‘Oh, something much, much better than that,’ she teased. ‘I paid Chef Napoleon Nelson for his usual shift and then gave him the night off from kitchen work. His staff could manage – he’d prepared absolutely everything.’ She paused, and I wondered where this was leading. ‘And then I rehired him with The Resurrection Brothers for the GAWP Bar.’

I stared at her blankly. ‘Bridgett, you didn’t! You did that?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, there have been headline acts with coloured musicians before.’

‘Yes, but these are kitchen staff or the equivalent, all amateurs and all black. You must have known you were taking a chance. What if some of your ladies objected?’

‘On the contrary, you’ve talked about The Resurrection Brothers so often, I had very few doubts. I figured you don’t fill the basketball stadium Westside every Sunday afternoon unless you’re pretty good.’ Bridgett hesitated. ‘I told the ladies that you’d had a bit of an accident and hurt your hand and had to go to hospital overnight.’ She looked down at her own hands. ‘Not a complete lie, but then I added that you had asked me to get The Resurrection Brothers to take your place, as you’d been playing with them every Sunday for years, and you had assured me they would prove to be a special treat.

‘They were sorry to hear about your hand but they took it well, and the free Krug champagne – compliments of Jack Spayd – helped put them in a party mood. By the way, fifty-six large bunches of roses arrived for you from the GAWP ladies on New Year’s Day. I guess Las Vegas ran clean out of red roses. I’m sorry you weren’t able to appreciate them.’

Bridgett continued, eyes dancing. ‘Some GAWP members, I admit, were a little surprised when they discovered the band members were all black. But it didn’t last. Nobody walked out and they simply loved the music. As you know, other casinos have headline acts with Negro stars and musicians, but this is the first time in Las Vegas an all-coloured band of local church musicians has ever played at a casino. They especially loved Chef Napoleon Nelson. My goodness, you’d have thought he was Count Basie with his big band, the way the ladies carried on. They simply lapped it up.’

‘Bridgett, that took a lot of guts.’

‘Not at all; it was fun and took my mind off you, Jack.’

‘And, in the process, you thumbed your nose at Chicago!’ I laughed.

‘Well, maybe. I acted as MC and pointed out that the members of the band were all working folk who’d come at short notice as a special favour to you, many giving up overtime jobs on New Year’s Eve to do so. We passed around a silver champagne bucket and it filled three times over with folding money,’ Bridgett laughed.

‘Then, at the very end, Chef Napoleon Nelson stood up and thanked them for their generosity. “The Lord is good,” he said, and made a little speech. You could have heard a pin drop as he told them how he’d first met you in a bar on the Westside when you’d come in and ordered sarsaparilla! This got a good laugh from the ladies, who were full of vintage Krug. He then went on to say how you’d jammed together, with you demanding he stay at the piano while you played the harmonica.’ Bridgett hesitated. ‘He had the room in tears with his story of how you played, and the people came and filled the café and the street outside. Then he said, “And now, we gonna play for Mr Jack Spayd the same number we played that first time. Ladies . . . ‘Saint James Infirmary Blues’.”’

Bridgett began crying again, and I confess I was pretty choked up myself. ‘French champagne and “Saint James Infirmary” with me in hospital, that’s neat,’ I managed to say with a choked kind of laugh, trying to keep it light. ‘Well done, Bridgett. Is it any wonder the coloured folk love you?’

‘Jack, they feel the same about you,’ she said quietly.

‘Bridgett, what now?’ I asked, feeling a little uncomfortable. ‘Are
you
going to be okay?’

‘Jack, if anything, I’ve got more paperwork. Yes, yes, I’ll be okay.’

I lifted my bandaged hand. ‘Well, you’ll have to find a new piano man now. Your GAWP ladies will understand.’

Bridgett burst into tears again. ‘Oh, Jack, what have I done! How can I ever —’

‘Shhh! That’s enough. These things happen. Just make sure you end up filthy rich out of all this!’

The senior nurse came in and announced that they were about to change my dressings and that visiting hours were over. She stood by while Bridgett gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek and promised to be back the following day.

I had to keep up some semblance of optimism, hope and good humour with the constant stream of visitors to my bedside. Chef Napoleon Nelson came every day and so did Lenny. He told me Sammy would probably need crutches, or at least a cane when he came out of hospital. Can’t say I was sorry. Lenny wanted me to delay my resignation, saying the Firebird would then be able to pay my hospital bills, but I’d had Bridgett update my original resignation to 2nd of January, then type it out so I could sign it. I wanted to be clear – not of Lenny, I explained, but of Chicago. I wanted no favours.

I groaned inwardly every time I saw a figure at the door, with the exceptions of Bridgett, who came every day, Lenny and Chef Napoleon Nelson. All the members of the band came in one day, plus a heap more of the casino staff and the parents of Jim-Jay Bullnose. Even Booker T. visited when he was in town.

The only good thing was that the constant throng during the day did stop me from dwelling on the condition of my left hand and what it might mean for my future. However, the nights – the endless nights after everyone had left, with only a dim half-light surrounding me – were like being in Hell’s waiting room.

CHAPTER TWENTY

EVERY MORNING, DR LIGHT,
the surgeon who first operated on my hand, would personally supervise the changing of my dressings, and every morning my wounded hand filled my heart with despair. It was a horrible purple colour, almost twice normal size and, covered in fresh scars and stitches, it only vaguely resembled a human hand. The very sight of it reduced me to tears. While he was careful to make no promises, Dr Light would inevitably conclude each examination with words such as, ‘Jack, you’re young and fit and the hand is mending well, but it’s much too early to tell what the outcome might be.’ It wasn’t exactly encouragement, but it gave me the tiniest sense of hope.

As I’ve mentioned, I have big hands – Rachmaninov hands, as Miss Bates used to call them – good piano hands, anyhow. Now the left one looked as if Hector, the barbecue chef, had tenderised it with a meat mallet. Even after I got used to the way it looked, the sight of it still filled me with a sick terror.

The piano was my life and, despite the tiny ray of hope Dr Light always left me with, it didn’t take much imagination to see that my career as a pianist could be over. Then, one afternoon, Dr Light entered wearing a broad smile, and accompanied by a tall man of slightly foreign appearance. He hung the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign on the door and closed it behind them. ‘Jack, may I introduce you to Dr Haghighi. You wouldn’t believe it, but as luck would have it, there is a medical convention at the Last Frontier casino. It occurred to me to check through the list of visiting surgeons and I discovered Dr Haghighi was giving a paper.’ He glanced up at the tall, smiling man. ‘Dr Koroush Haghighi is originally from Persia but is now considered one of America’s best hand surgeons. He is from back east and operates out of Albany General Hospital, New York State. He has generously agreed to examine your hand.’

It says a lot for Dr Light that, as a surgeon himself, he was prepared to defer to a colleague with presumably near identical qualifications.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Spayd,’ the visiting surgeon greeted me.

‘Hi, Doctor; please, it’s Jack.’ I couldn’t be sure I’d pronounce either of his names correctly. I figured if he called me Jack, I could then simply refer to him as ‘Doctor’.

‘I’ve looked at your x-rays, Jack. I suspect there’s not much more that can be done here. Dr Light has done a remarkable job, considering the facilities available. But let me have a look for myself. X-rays don’t always show everything.’

Dr Light proceeded to remove the dressings, a process that took a fair amount of time. It sometimes seemed I had more linen wrapped around me than an ancient Egyptian mummy. Meanwhile, Dr Haghighi went over to the porcelain basin in the corner of my room, removed his jacket, and proceeded to scrub his hands and arms up to the elbows with antiseptic lotion.

‘Jack, you may have noticed there are no nursing staff present. I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention this visit by Dr Haghighi to anyone. He isn’t licensed to operate in Nevada and is doing me a great personal favour by looking at your hand. I must emphasise, please don’t mention it to any of the hospital staff – or anyone else, for that matter,’ he repeated.

‘Of course, I understand. Thank you both,’ I said, wincing despite the morphine as the last piece of dressing was removed, and the second surgeon, freshly scrubbed, appeared at my bedside.

Dr Haghighi spent a good while looking at and probing various parts of what passed for a human hand, once in a while asking me to attempt to move a finger or turn my hand. Despite the painkiller, this often proved acutely uncomfortable. ‘Jack, you have lost some of your fine motor functions. There are also issues with the repair of the many fractures. I have the honour to head up a specialist hand injuries’ centre at the Albany General Hospital. It’s a very fine facility and I’m sure I can find you a bed if you’re willing to come east; though, I suggest, the sooner I operate, the better. The convention runs for a week, so it would be good if you could come to us as soon after that as Dr Light thinks it safe to move you.’

‘Can you fix it so I can play the piano again, Doctor?’

He looked at Dr Light, who nodded. ‘Mr Spayd – ah, I beg your pardon, Jack – I can’t promise anything at this stage. This is an accident no surgeon can fully repair. The human hand is an extraordinarily complex physiological device, and it can often adapt remarkably to injuries but seldom to the sort of damage yours has received. I doubt we can fully restore it to its former capacity.’ He indicated my hand. ‘These are among the worst injuries I have personally witnessed. For a pianist, even a lesser injury would likely cause problems.’ He sighed. ‘I’m very sorry but it’s better to be truthful than to raise your hopes. However, I feel sure we can restore much of the use of your hand if you come to us.’ He shrugged. ‘But there is only so much we can do.’ He spoke English with only a trace of an accent and with perfect grammar.