Prologue
The Man in the Pinstriped Suit
The Man in the Pinstriped Suit
Harmony spat on the ground at the pigeon that had just landed next to his old, shabby brown loafer. It gave an indignant coo, and fluttered up and away, leaving a small gray feather as a memorial for its presence. Off to fly and poop over the heads of the millions of New Yorkers going about their lives of leather briefcases and crumpled up newspaper.
For all the people who walked through Central Park, none of them could be bothered to notice a sixteen-year-old homeless shelter patron in his father’s old church clothes seated on a varnished park bench. None of the squatters hoping to catch a free lunch, none of the truant officers looking to ignite more trouble than they extinguished, not even any of the local Irish street rats fresh out of the Ellis Island immigration lines. He had all the build of a full man, and about one percent of the life of one.
He felt the impulse to retrieve the day’s New York Times protruding from the trashcan next to his bench. No such luck, it was yesterday’s news. The date in the top-right corner read February 17th, 1946. Harmony sighed as he glanced at the picture of a woman’s hopelessly pale corpse, thrown alongside a sloppy headline article entitled “Fifth Unsolved Mob Murder of the Month.” Ketchup and mustard stains prevented him from reading the faded black print, but he didn’t care what it said; it was uninspiring when he read it yesterday, and the words hadn’t changed at all. Not the best police detective could rewrite this story as a victory over crime.
Harmony knew that nothing that was already determined could ever be changed. Not this unsolved police case or his father dying of a heart attack; not his mother running away to whore herself off in some unknown part of the city, not even the detested collared shirt and brown pants and workman’s coat he’d been forced to wear when nothing else presented itself.
After what seemed like enough self-pity, Harmony reached into the inner pocket of his coat and retrieved the maple-and-brass harmonica given to him on his seventh birthday. He had a suspicion that his mother had only picked it up after work, when she remembered that she had a son, but he’d kept it ever since, as a reminder of those innocent years before the thugs and the drugs that ruled the city now.
He waited for several moments until the people stopped passing with much frequency, so he could play in peace. With a sigh, he lifted the little instrument to his lips and blew out the ten notes in perfect tempo that he always began with. After a rest, he began to play what was an improvisation more than anything, but still sounded good to him. The raspy notes flowed out of his mouth in unbroken rhythm, without needing any time to think what he would play. Harmony simply leaned back against the bench boards and allowed the music to play.
After a simple little song composed entirely on the spot, Harmony let the little harmonica fall into his lap while he thought of what to play next.
“Don’t stop now! You sounded wonderful!” A voice said from his immediate left.
Harmony turned to see that he wasn’t alone on the bench anymore; a sharp-dressed man now sat on the other end of the bench. The white pinstripes on his charcoal gray suit looked to Harmony an awful lot like the lines on an asphalt road.
“I’m sorry, don’t mind me,” he said, leaning back on the bench. “Just keep on playing that harmonica of yours. It makes a lovely sound.”
Harmony looked back to the little instrument in his lap, and he thought about not playing anymore. He thought about getting up and leaving to go somewhere else in the park. He even thought about telling the man to leave. But something about the way he’d made his request defeated all of those options. This fellow sounded eloquent, confident, even cocky that Harmony would listen to him. But aside from that, he actually was expressing an interest in the music. For whatever reason, it made Harmony feel comfortable, so he took up the harmonica again and began to play.
The man began to snap his fingers and tap one foot to the rhythm. Harmony glanced over and saw a smile flicker to life on his clean-cut face. It also appeared that the suave black shoe on the foot he was tapping likely cost more than the entire one outfit Harmony had to his name.
Once Harmony was finished with his second improvisation, his unlikely companion dropped a dollar bill into a cup that he just noticed was as his feet. “A little something for you, my boy.”
“Oh, that’s not my cup. I’m not playing for money, mister.” Harmony bashfully took the dollar bill out and offered it back.
“Keep it anyway, courtesy of one satisfied customer! It’s Bruce Pikerson by the way,” he said, holding out a hand.
Harmony grasped Bruce’s hand, and some unknown sensation about the firmness of his shake inspired him to return the greeting. “I’m Harmony. Harmony Holmes.”
“A musical name for an equally musical talent, wonderful!” Bruce said, looking off into the distance beyond the brim of his dark gray fedora hat. “Have you ever considered pursuing a career in the musical world?”
“Oh . . . well . . .” Harmony had never thought much about his future. Since his parents had never discussed careers with him, and he’d dropped out of school to work and support his broken household, there’d never been much option besides maybe joining the military. Music had always been a fascination of his, but with his current standing, he didn’t really have the means to go with it.
“Because I think you really have the potential to do well,” Bruce continued, not waiting for the rest of his response.
“Well, I like music a lot, but my . . . I don’t have enough money to get started.” Harmony didn’t feel that it was smart to reveal his entire home situation. Or lack thereof rather. “I’ve never even had lessons.”
Bruce nodded with a thoughtful frown, looking more off into empty space than at Harmony. “Well, I might be able to help you out with that, my young friend.”
Harmony flicked his head over and looked at Bruce intently. “What do you mean?” He asked, squinting suspiciously.
Bruce grinned, and shifted slightly to a more comfortable sitting position. “I mean I happen to know a fairly talented amateur jazz musician who lives in this neighborhood. He plays the saxophone, and he’s quite good. I might be able to talk him into teaching you, if you’d be willing to do a favor for me.”
“What could I possibly do for you? I’m only sixteen years old.” Harmony found himself blurting out the words before even thinking about the proposition. He’d known Bruce Pikerson for a grand total of maybe ten minutes, and he’d already offered to pay for his music lessons in exchange for a favor. If his mother ever taught him anything, it was that there were plenty of people in the city who took advantage of young folks.
“Oh, it’s nothing to complicated. Just a simple little chore I need done.” Bruce reached into the inner pocket of his suit and withdrew a small card. “There’s a car waiting to be picked up and delivered to the individual at this address.”
Harmony took the little paper as Bruce handed it to him. It was a simple white business-style card, with unimpressive font spelling out a simple name and address:
Gino Frederico
1355 Melrose Avenue
Bronx, NY
“Take a taxi to O’Henry’s Irish Pub. It’s not far from here,” Bruce explained. “Once you’re there, go inside and look for a man wearing a green suit and black hat. Tell him Bruce Pikerson sent you, and he’ll hand the car off to you. All you need to do, my friend, is deliver it to that address. I’ll be there with its buyer waiting for you at ten o’clock tonight.”
Harmony’s hand trembled a little as he heard the full explanation of the errand. It seemed innocent enough, but the whole idea of being a courier wasn’t what made him nervous. His father had taught him to drive unofficially, but he’d never applied for a driver’s license, or taken driver’s education.
“That won’t be a problem, will it?” Bruce asked. “Taking the handoff, or driving it over?”
Harmony swallowed, staring intently at the card almost as if the words printed there would provide insight. But he resolved that if Bruce really could help him, then he was going to run this errand. “Not at all. I’ll be there.”
*****
“Er, hello?” The man at the booth said, lifting the mug of beer resting on the coaster in front of him. He took a generous swig of the powerful golden brew and looked Harmony up and down, trying to decide why a boy had sat down with him.
Harmony looked him up and down as well. He looked much sterner and more serious than Bruce had been, the brown stubble on his chin and cheeks rippling as he frowned curiously. This was the man in the green suit and black hat that he’d been told to look for, but now that he was here, his skin felt hot with anxiety under the scope of this man’s stare.
“I’m the, um, I’m the messenger. I was sent by, um, Bruce Pikerson.” Harmony’s hands turned over each other incessantly as he relayed the information given to him earlier. It obviously carried some weight, because the man visibly released his tension, although his stern expression remained.
“So, you’re Pike’s courier? Hmm, I would have pegged him to send someone a little more professional-looking.” Harmony looked down with red cheeks at his simple layman’s clothes as his contact spoke. “But, what the hell do I care? I’m just delivering.”
Harmony felt his neck tense as the man slid a ring with two keys across the table to him. “Car’s out front. It’s the black Dodge with dice on the mirror.” With the handoff complete, the man leaned back and returned the mug of strong Irish ale to his mouth. He looked awfully out-of-place among the shabby, plain-clothed folks of the lower class that mainly inhabited this bar.
Keys in hand, Harmony stood and exited the pub, jumping a bit as the bell above the door rang. The low, yellow-orange light emanating from the restaurant was a sharp contrast to the darker, more blue outside of the Manhattan Island street jungle. He didn’t have any difficulty locating the car the man had explained to him, as it was just to the left of the bar doors. He walked slowly up to it and used the larger key to open the door.
Harmony remembered how to drive quite well; he had no doubt he could handle the other drivers as he made his way northeast to the address behind the wheel of the black Dodge. The problem would come if for whatever reason he was stopped by the authorities for some trivial offense, and they discovered he didn’t have a license. For that reason, he made very sure to drive exactly at the speed limit, stop completely at every STOP sign, and keep his eyes in a deadlock on the asphalt trail in front of him at all times.
Thankfully, there were no difficulties with the drive, and he made it to an old building with the address he was looking for in a cool thirty minutes. Harmony parked the car carefully, and got out to look for Bruce.
His employer was there, along with a shorter, stockier man dressed in a navy blue suit. He walked up and jovially greeted Harmony as he saw him. “Ah, Harmony! Good to see you boy, and how wonderful that you brought the car!” He shook Harmony’s hand vigorously and nodded to the man next to him.
“Thank you so much for bringing the car to us. I am Gino Frederico,” the shorter man said, holding out his hand for a shake as well. A thick Italian accent coated his words like honey.
“I trust there were no problems getting here, correct?” Bruce asked, taking the keys as Harmony handed them over.
“None at all. I got the car and drove it over, no sweat. Consider your favor done.” Harmony smiled and nodded as he delivered news of the success.
As Bruce handed the keys to Gino, who went to retrieve the car himself, he reached a hand into his inner suit pocket. “And I haven’t forgotten my part of our deal,” he said, handing Harmony a slip of paper with another name and address on it. “He’ll be expecting you tomorrow at noon. And I’ve even made sure he’ll have an instrument for you.”
Harmony eagerly took the card, not bothering to read it as his thoughts raced ahead to tomorrow at noon. Finally, after so many years of an overworked father and neglectful mother, he would finally get a chance to pursue his passion.
“Oh, and one more thing for you. I’ve taken out a month-long lease.” Bruce handed him another ring with two keys and a business card for an apartment complex that Harmony was familiar with. “Apartment 8E. It’s empty and all ready for you.”
With a smile and a wink, the man in the pinstriped suit turned and walked away down the sidewalk. A dumbstruck Harmony stared at a handful of gifts with an open mouth and wide, unbelieving eyes. First, he was planned to meet with an instructor who would now be teaching him to hone his musical talents. And now he had been provided with an apartment that would relieve him of his previous need to sleep under one of the bridges over the lake in Central Park. In just one day, Bruce Pikerson had been even more kind to him that his own parents had been for his entire life.
Harmony’s hand almost missed as he put the keys and the address in his pocket, and ran off down the sidewalk toward his new home. As he ran, he thought of his errand. He wasn’t stupid, or in denial of what was happening. He’d seen the original license plate in the glove box of the car he’d delivered. He’d noticed the pistol concealed in Bruce’s jacket when he took the apartment keys from the pocket. He didn’t question how Bruce knew about him being homeless. There was an air of shady operations about this whole evening, but Harmony didn’t care. All that mattered at that time was soon getting in an elevator heading to the 8th floor of a building he used to envy, where he would find a brown door marked 8E.
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