Tony Nicosia backed his convertible Mustang out of the garage of his small, New Orleans home. The weather chilly, though not cold, he had the top down. Pulling into the driveway, he saw his wife Lil waiting on the front porch. She wasn’t smiling.
“You take that dog of yours more places than you do me,” she said.
Tony gave her a quick kiss as he hurried into the house, a little white dog with a black patch around his eye hot on his heels.
“Did you forget about date tonight? Dinner and a movie, just like old times.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Sorry. I was actually thinking about what we might do afterwards,” he said with a wink.
“You’re hopeless,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“Taking Patch to the vet for his booster shots. I forgot my wallet. Seen it?”
“Lord help us!” she said, handing him the wallet. “You left it on the kitchen table. I was bringing it to you.”
Tony kissed her again. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Yes you do.”
Their marriage had lasted more years than he remembered. After marrying right out of high school, they’d had five children in quick succession. Now, their kids were all grown, Tony and Lil living alone, except for Patch. Tortured tires of a vehicle on a nearby street screeched the noise ending with a sickening thud of tortured metal. Tony grabbed Lil’s hand, not reacting to the nearby fender bender.
“If you’re lonely, we can work on number six tonight.”
“In your dreams,” she said.
“Think about it,” he said, rushing out the door. “I’m in the mood already.”
“You were born in the mood. When are you coming back?”
“Shouldn’t take long,” he said as he backed out of the driveway, onto the street.
The N.O.P.D. had recently canned Tony after twenty-five years of service, unsubstantiated allegations of misconduct the reason. The entire unit had come under scrutiny of the U.S. Justice Department. Anything but corrupt, Tony had been the proverbial baby thrown out with the bathwater following a post-Katrina purge.
A crackerjack lawyer had saved his pension. Now, he was making more money as a private dick than he ever had as a homicide detective. Still, he’d loved every minute of his days on the force, and thought of his new role as interim work until the N.O.P.D. saw the light and rehired him.
Traffic was scattered on Terpsichore, and he had no problem making it to the vet’s office in time. The reception area was crowded with dogs, cats, and caring owners. Though most of the dogs were squirming or barking, Patch was a dream, never moving out of his lap.
Tony had rescued Patch from an abusive situation during the last storm that had threatened New Orleans. He was batching it at the time as Lil had left him because of his affair with a younger woman. He’d left the woman, and Lil had finally forgiven the discretion, but not his adoption of the dog. Having never had a pet, Tony stood his ground. They had made amends, and now, he and the dog were inseparable. His cell phone rang as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Tony here,” he said.
“Tony, it’s Frankie Castalano. Remember me?”
Tony’s heart skipped a beat. He knew only one person named Frankie Castalano. It wasn’t a person he’d admit knowing.
“I ain’t with the N.O.P.D. anymore, Mr. Castalano.”
“I know that, and you can call me Frankie.”
Frankie Castalano was the highest Mafia boss in the southeastern United States. Tony had met him only once, and not on friendly terms. Suddenly in the throes of an anxiety attack, he was determined not to let Castalano know it.
“What’s up, Frankie?”
“I got a little problem. I hear you’re a private dick now.”
“Yes sir. That’s a fact.”
“I was impressed with you when we had our little involvement. You came across to me as a man with integrity—someone I can trust.”
“I try to shoot straight, though my wife would tell you I’m not a perfect person,” Tony said.
Castalano chuckled. “Lord knows I’m not casting stones. What are you doing right now?”
“Right this minute?”
“That’s right.”
“Leaving the vet with my dog and on my way home.”
“I got a job for you,” Castalano said.
“Great. I got nothing going right now.”
“Then be here in twenty minutes.”
“I got to take the dog to the house first.”
“Not necessary. You know where I live, don’t you?”
Everyone in New Orleans knew where Frankie Castalano lived. Every teenager in the city had driven his girlfriend past the gated complex bordering Lake Pontchartrain. Castalano owned half the restaurants and clubs in the parish. He was famous, and not in a good way. Tony quickly realized he wasn’t kidding.
“Yes sir. What about my dog?”
“Bring him with you. I like dogs.”
Castalano hung up before Tony could answer. He was soon tooling down Pontchartrain Boulevard, the lake on one side of the road, expensive homes on the other. Castalano’s was the only house on a spit of land jutting into the lake. He drove around the estate surrounded by a twelve-foot brick and cast-iron fence for five minutes before finally arriving at the front gate. Pulling to a stop, he punched the call button on an electronic keypad.
“Hello,” a tinny voice answered.
“I’m here to see Mr. Castalano.”
“And who may I tell him it is?” the voice said.
“Tony Nicosia.”
After half a minute, the gate creaked as it slowly opened. Patch started barking when they drove into acres of manicured lawn fronting scenic Lake Pontchartrain.
“Bet you’d like this yard to run around in,” Tony said, rubbing his head.
They followed the road to a house resembling a Scottish castle he’d seen pictures of in a magazine. When he drove around the circle driveway and parked in front, a valet appeared from nowhere, opening his door.
“Mr. Castalano is expecting you,” he said.
“And my dog?”
“He’s also expecting your dog.”
A butler in a black tuxedo met them at the front door, leading them down a long hallway that seemed to extend forever. They stopped at a uniformed security man standing beside a metal detector. He was young, skinny and had a full head of curly hair. He also had a pleasant smile. Tony emptied his pockets into a container before walking through the detector.
“Hope you don’t mind, Lieutenant, but I gotta pat you down,” the security man dressed in blue said.
He raised his arms and allowed the young man to check him. When he finished, Tony tapped his shoulder.
“Nice job. They could use you at the N.O.P.D.”
“That’s where I work, Lieutenant. This is just a part time job I got to help make ends meet.”
“Do I know you?” Tony asked.
“Jim Steele. I broke in a year ago. Everyone on the force talks about what an awesome cop you were.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Tony said.
As he followed the butler down the hallway, he wondered about the N.O.P.D. cop working part time for the mob, hoping the personable young man wasn’t already on the take. He decided not to worry about it. The butler opened the door to a covered veranda overlooking the lake and acres of manicured grounds. Frankie Castalano was sitting at a table, waiting for them.
“Join me,” he said.
“Sorry about the dog,” Tony said.
“Stop it. I told you I like dogs.”
Castalano looked nothing like the dapper Mafia don Tony had confronted several years before in district court. Instead of pinstripe suit, he wore red, white, and blue Bermuda shorts, a Saint’s sweatshirt, and well-worn flip-flops. Even with his salt and pepper hair, he looked about fifty. Tony placed him at least ten years older. When Patch jumped into his lap and licked his face, he grinned and hugged the dog as if he’d expected as much.
“Patch,” Tony said. “Come here, now!”
“It’s okay,” Castalano said. “I had a mutt that looked just like this one when I was younger. Wouldn’t want to sell him to me, would you?”
“Sorry, Mr. Castalano. Patch is my baby. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“Glad to hear that. If you’d have said yes, one of my men would be showing you the door about now.”
“You said you got a job for me,” Tony said, changing the subject.
“You like jazz, Tony?”
“Sure, don’t everyone?”
“Good answer. You listen to music much?”
“Mostly sports radio.”
“Pull up a chair. I don’t like looking up at the person I’m talking to.”
When Tony took the seat beside Castalano, he saw for the first time the view through the window. St. Augustine grass covered the hundred yards to the lake, its blue-green hue contrasting with gray clouds floating above it in the December sky. A boat in full sail on the horizon caused the panorama to look like a watercolor scene painted by some famous French artist. Castalano saw him staring.
“I know. It’s beautiful here.”
“Got that right. You sail?”
Castalano smiled. “Can’t even swim and I’m scared to death of the water. See my pool?” he said, pointing. “Never been in it. My daughter and grandson love it, though, and I love watching them have fun.”
A young woman and a boy frolicked in the large pool situated just outside the window. As Castalano had said, they were both having fun.
“Is that them?”
“Yes. Josie and Jojo.”
“Is your wife...?”
“Lung cancer. Been single now for six years. You got children, Tony?”
“Five, all grown and moved on with their lives. My wife has empty nest syndrome.”
“Josie is my one and only. I’m like you and your dog. I couldn’t live without her, or grandson Jojo.”
“Nice looking kid,” Tony said.
“He’s part of the reason I called you.”
“Oh?”
“Jazz, Tony. Most people in this town love their music. It’s the birthplace of jazz, you know.”
“Yes sir.”
“Frankie, call me Frankie.”
“Sure, Frankie. You got a problem for me to solve for you concerning jazz.”
“Yes. Locate something missing for more than forty years. Come with me and I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”
As Tony followed Frankie Castalano down another marbled hall, he realized that not only was the man shorter than him, he was also bowlegged. He’d seemed much taller in the courtroom. Lifts, he decided as Castalano punched in a code on the keypad on the wall. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw when the mob boss opened the door.
“The finest jazz museum in New Orleans. Be thankful, Tony. You’re one of a select few to see this place.”
Castalano didn’t have to flip a switch as sensors filled the open area with just the right amount and intensity of ambient light. Jazz posters and old black and white photos of early artists playing their instruments covered the walls. Scratchy music of a brass band recorded with equipment from a different era started playing from hidden speakers. The voice of a woman singing with the band was just as primitive though evocative as any current sound recorded in ultra-high fidelity.
“You must have spent lots of time and money putting this place together,” Tony said.
“You wouldn’t believe,” Frankie said. “This piano came from the Tuxedo in Storyville. Buddy Christian was the last pianist to play it. The owner didn’t want to part with it, and I had to convince him.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Tony said, wondering but not asking what he’d done to convince the piano’s former owner to sell it.
“This cornet belonged to Freddie Keppard. Jelly Roll Morton called him the greatest hot trumpeter in existence. If you touch it, I’ll have to kill you.”
Frankie was smiling, but Tony taking no chances.
“Just looking.”
“I’m kidding,” he said, handing it to Tony. “You play?”
“I played the tuba in high school. I was pretty pathetic, but I enjoyed marching behind the pretty majorettes in Mardi Gras parades.”
“Man after my own heart. Pop a few notes.”
Tony managed a few bars of Way Down Yonder in New Orleans. When he finished, Frankie applauded.
“Not bad,” he said. “I like a man with a good lip.”
“You play?” Tony said.
Frankie took the horn. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Lifting the cornet, he began to blow, the room suddenly filled with an old jazz favorite, Tony wondering if what he heard was a recording. He quickly decided the mob boss was an excellent cornet player.
“Frankie, you’re as good as anyone in town.”
“Thanks. For most of my young life, that’s all I wanted to do. It’s also the reason I need your help.”
“I’m here for you.”
Tony followed him to a mahogany conference table.
“Sit,” Frankie said. From a Manila folder, he removed an eight-by-ten black and white photo of an old cornet. “This horn is the reason I need your help. Notice anything unusual about the photo?”
“The word King engraved on the bell?”
“You’re good.”
He pushed a large book, opened to an old picture of a black man with a horn, across the table for Tony to see.
“You know who it is?” he asked.
“The caption says Joseph Oliver.”
“The cornet player who gave Louis Armstrong one of his first significant gigs. He earned the nickname King when he played in Storyville. During his days, he was a rock star.”
“You got a magnifying glass?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Frankie said, pulling one from a drawer and sliding it toward him.
When the jazz playing in the background stopped, Frankie tapped a button on the wall, a scratchy trumpet solo quickly filling the room.
“I’d say the horn on King Oliver’s knee is the same as the one in the picture you just showed me. I can even see a few letters of the name ‘King’ on the bell.”
Frankie reached across the table and whacked Tony’s shoulder.
“I knew I was picking the right person when I called you. In my mind, the horn in the picture belonged to Joe ‘King’ Oliver.”
“I’m not an antique expert, but I’d say you’re right on target,” Tony said.
“I’m jumping the gun because I haven’t told you the rest of the story.”
“Then please continue.”
“King Oliver mentored Louis Armstrong. Armstrong worshipped him. He used to deliver firewood to some of the joints in Storyville. When he was delivering next door to where King played, he’d put his ear to the wall and listen. If it hadn’t been for Oliver, Satchmo might never have gotten his chance to shine.”
“And?”
“And he gave me his horn. At least someone did. I’m sure of it.”
“Someone other than Oliver?”
“I got the instrument in ’59. Oliver died in 1938.”
“How did you get it?”
“It was a Sunday, at a school recital. I played a solo and got a standing ovation. After the performance, my band teacher gave me a leather case containing the horn. A man in the audience had given it to him for me.”
“And he didn’t know who it was?”
“Oh, he knew all right. He just wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why not?”
“Told me I was too young to appreciate it.”
“And he never told you.”
“Died in a car accident. Hell, with these crazy New Orleans drivers, it’s a wonder we’re not all dead.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Tony said.
“That’s the story. All I know about where the horn came from.”
“So you want me to find out who gave you the horn?”
“Yes.”
“The case is cold, but I’ll give it my best shot. What else?”
“You know how much that horn’s worth today?”
“I’m sure it’s priceless.”
“Bingo. Problem is I don’t have it anymore.”
“What happened to it?”
“My papa, he took it from me. Said I needed to forget music and start concentrating on family business.”
“You’re the boss now. Have him return it to you.”
“Not that simple. Papa’s dead.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“We’ve kept it quiet for obvious reasons.”
Tony stared at the old photograph, wondering what Frankie’s obvious reasons were. When the scratchy recording ended, another quickly began.
“So your father took your horn and now you want me to find it for you. You also want me to prove it was King Oliver’s horn, and find out who gave it to you, and why. Pretty tall order, Frankie.”
“I didn’t hire you to tell me it’s impossible. You interested or not?”
The annoyance he heard in Frankie’s voice told him he’d pressed a little too hard for information. He waited a beat before answering.
“Like I said, I’ll give it my best shot.”
Your retainer is in the folder. If you need more, call my personal number that’s also in the folder.”
He pushed the Manila folder, stuffed with documents and photos, across the table. Tony thumbed through it until he came to an envelope with his name on it.
“This is a lot of money,” he said after taking a quick peek.
“I mean business, Tony, and I expect results. Don’t let me down.”