Charles Boeckman Presents Johnny Nickle: Trouble Follows

CHARLES BOECKMAN PRESENTS JOHNNY NICKLE:

TROUBLE FOLLOWS

by Whit Howland

Published by Pro Se Press

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Pro Se Productions

Under licensed agreement with Charles & Pattie Boeckman, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Epilogue

Prologue

Johnny Nickle’s lips puckered the mouthpiece attached to his battered trumpet. His facial muscles tensed and relaxed in a controlled manner as he blew the notes. The lubricated valves pumped like oil derricks when his fingers applied pressure; curls of smoke danced around him as if they were charmed cobras.

The band, The Daybreakers, backed him up. Molasses Riddet drummed the beat. Roscoe Jones kept time on the bass. Winston Sallis plucked the rhythm on a hollowed out guitar. They were playing Jazz Date, their signature piece.

Even though it was a showstopper, the tune carried heavy baggage in the form of a curse. Years ago, the song caused accidents and other unfortunate occurrences to a lot of Johnny’s friends and associates. As of late, the curse seemed to have been lifted. Just the same, the combo got jitters every time they started in on the number. Bad omens aside, it came with the territory that a purveyor of ragtime always had to look over his shoulder.

Inner demons plagued almost everyone attached to jazz. The musicians constantly slayed dragons, be it booze, broads, or other kinds of weird medicine. The fans also brought a whole slew of problems to the concerts, but not always the skill set to solve them. As a result, they made terrible decisions in the chalky haze that resulted in a lot of broken bones and heartache. Those choices always involved a glinty blade or oiled revolver.

But tonight, the music lulled everyone into a swaying stupor. Women undid the red satin scarves snaking their smooth throats. Men loosened their silk cravats around rough stubbled necks. Hair once greased back or coiffed got mussed as the sybaritic sounds tingled the scalp. Shoes and high heels were kicked off to let the skin breathe and feel the floor vibrate.

Johnny felt the energy. He closed his eyes and sensed his graying temples pulse. Lost in the solo, he ignored the pools of sweat in the armpits of his white dress shirt. Very slowly, he shook free of his black jacket that comprised his funeral suit and loosened his ebon tie. Wayfarer glasses slanted on the bridge of his nose. The other band members followed his lead.

After stretching the part for a couple of minutes, Nickle opened his eyes and saw three new customers enter the club through the padded door. He imagined a trio of hombres pushing open the batwings of an old west saloon; hombres they were.

Instead of black hats, the two younger tramps wore engineer caps to go with their rumpled duds. The older wore a driver’s cap. Their workman’s shoes were scuffed. Their faces displayed a road map of rough highways, flop houses, and greasy diners. These hobos were trouble. Johnny could see it in their eyes. The youthful ones’ feral blue peepers challenged everything in the room. The older had the lamps of a fox who’d bide his time and then pounce with stealth.

So far, they seemed to be digging the musicians’ repertoire. They snapped their fingers, lit cigarettes, and leaned against the rail. What worried Johnny the most was the fact this was a confined space and these animals didn’t look as if they wanted to be caged. But again, they seemed to like the music. So all Nickle and the band had to do was finish the show and scram while the getting was good. Keep it simple and don’t get involved.

The crowd applauded when The Daybreakers finished their set. Johnny quickly grabbed the mike. Thank you very much, St. Louis. We’ll be here all week.

The band leader took another bow, conferred with the others, and exited the stage.

*****

The lavatory served as Nickle’s VIP dressing room. Plaster hung like swords of Damocles. The air smelled of disinfectant. Rusty pipes dripped and one needed galoshes to slosh through the puddles of toilet water. A whirring fan provided weak ventilation and the only escape from these confines was through a grimy window painted shut. Johnny took inventory.

If he could, he would just leave the joint before trouble started but it was all about the ritual. Horn players, ivory plunkers, sax blowers, and bass pluckers were superstitious. He needed all the good karma he could get. So, he always took the time to freshen up after a gig.

His neck veins bulged as he worked the comb through thinning hair and his eyes stung when he splashed his haggard face in the sink. When he was done, he took a towel, once white but now gray, off the dilapidated metal rack and ran it across his mug. Thinking he was home free, he smiled and packed his toiletries in his worn dopp kit and headed for the door. Then he heard a glass shatter. Then another. And another.

A scream followed the broken bottle. Crashes came and Johnny could hear furniture being broken.

*****

It started with a nudge. When no apology came, Tadpole Sanders, the second oldest hobo brother, confronted his challenger. A slight like this could not go without retort. The oldest of the three, Joe, stepped in, but his involvement was only obligatory, and too little too late. Tad was a steamroller. When he got a burr in his saddle, no one could reason or bargain with him.

The second Sanders bore down on his opponent with a mad dog stare. The other man responded with his own mean look.

I think you shoved me, son, Tad said. I think you’d better apologize. He jabbed the man’s chest. The two circled each other ever so slightly.

Pee Wee, the youngest of the three, stepped off the counter. If you had a problem with Tad, you had a problem with Pee Wee. The youngest Sanders was the crew’s muscle. The other two could fall back on him when things started to get heavy. Pee Wee’s dead fish eyes looked on at the brewing storm.

Joe leaned back and lit a cigarette. His sinuous mind schemed about how he could make what appeared to be lemons into lemonade. The way he was figuring it was this. If Tad didn’t blow a gasket here, he would most likely blow one somewhere else, some place Joe would need Tad’s full focus. So, better the sprout have his fun now, rather than later. The best he could do was get out of the way and not get burned.

Tad’s opponent screwed up his pug face. I think if you want an apology, you need to do a better job of asking for one, junior. The man shed his sport coat and stepped closer.

Tad nudged him again. You not understandin’ something, brother. So let me spell it out for you. It’s like this. I don’t have to apologize to no one! Let me tell you another thing. If I do have to say I’m sorry, it isn’t going to be to a panty waist sissy like you!

Pug Face shot Tad a lopsided grin. But the inferno in his eyes raged on. You’re moving quickly toward finding out just how much of a man I am, tramp!

As the lug moved his hulking frame farther into Tad’s personal space, he did not see Pee Wee creeping from behind.

Tad reached out and snapped the man’s left suspender as if he were plucking a guitar string. Pug Face, lacking any more patience, let the blood flood into his cheeks as he balled his fists.

A smile crept across Tad Sanders’ face as he watched his foe’s composure fall apart. Then he averted his eyes to signal his brother, who was now behind the man.

Pee Wee, with extreme efficiency, slugged Pug Face squarely in the back. In most instances, the punch was designed to take the recipient out of commission. But when Pee Wee’s fist landed, pain shot through his arm like