The Quality of the Informant by Gerald Petievich Read Free Book Online Page B

its roof proclaimed "Shorty McFadden's-Le Jazz Club." They got out of the car and strolled to the rear door of the place. The sound of a saxophone came from inside. Both men tightened their belts to keep their guns from bulging under their suit jackets. Carr opened the door and they went inside.
    Blue lights shone through cigarette smoke onto a stage that barely had room enough for the combo on it. Shorty McFadden, a fragile-looking, jockey-sized man wearing a French-cut white suit and a black turtleneck, was playing a fiery "Cherokee" on his sax. As he harmonized, his eyes were half shut and his knees bent with the rhythm. He had thinning brown hair and the chalky complexion of a man who had just been released from solitary confinement.
    The crowd was mixed: beach types, a few blacks, more than a few middle-aged hoods with young women, some sunken-cheeked hypes. The T-men were the focus of lots of stares, including one from a black woman bartender with corn-rowed hair who was as tall as a basketball player. Carr and Kelly took a seat at a corner table that provided a view of both doors.
    At the end of the set, Shorty McFadden bowed to the applause and told the audience in a hoarse voice that it was time for a break. He set the saxophone on its stand and lit a cigarette. Then he hopped off the stage and wound his way to the bar, shaking hands along the way. The Amazon bartender said something to him and he headed straight for Carr's table. Everyone shook hands. Shorty greeted the T-men without smiling. Come to think of it, Carr had never seen him smile. The diminutive man pulled up a chair.
    "Is there anything going on in here?" McFadden asked, sounding concerned.
    "Nothing like that," Carr said. "We just stopped by to talk. "
    "If you ever get word that anything is going on in here, just tell me. I'll burn whoever it is right then and there. I've put the word out that nothing goes down in Shorty's. My old lady had to go to six hearings before the liquor board granted her a license for this place. I will burn anyone who brings trouble in here. I didn't spend fifteen years bouncing from San Quentin to Lexington with a needle sticking out of my arm so that some punk could do business in my club and get the place shut down. This place is my dream, man." He puffed on his cigarette. Smoke wafted out of his mouth and into his nose. "In the old days I used to wake up in the morning and gulp a handful of uppers. During the day I'd use heroin, numorphan , sleeping pills, and drink a gallon of wine. Sometimes I'd lay down about five A.M. or so and try to catch a few winks. And, even with all that shit in my system, do you know what was on my mind? The idea of someday owning my own jazz club...of being able to get up on a stage like I just did and blow 'Cherokee' for my friends. Well, I finally got my dream. And if anybody does anything to fuck it up, even though I'm a solid guy who went to the joint more than once because I wouldn't hand up my friends, I'll burn ' em ." He finished off a cigarette with a puff that fired paper all the way back to the filter, and blew out the smoke.
    "I need some background information," Carr said.
    Shorty McFadden lit a fresh cigarette. He puffed once and coughed once. "Shoot."
    "Teddy Mora," Carr said.
    "The Teddy Mora I know deals paper out of the Castaways Lounge one day of the week," McFadden said. "The rest of the time he's hard to find. I heard he just bought a head shop down the street from Grauman's Chinese. I met him once in the U.S. marshal's lockup when I was awaiting trial. We both made bail at the same time. He had some bank counter-checks and I downed ' em . I gave him front money for some more, and he never came through. He's a snake, a back-stabber."
    "Have you ever heard the name Paul LaMonica ? " Carr said.
    Shorty nodded. "He's a paper pusher too ... funny money and checks. But when I was hanging paper, I never scored from him. The word was that if you crossed him he'd kill ya . Not