Dirty Words - [9]

Chet Baker.

Billie Holiday.

Even Mr. Wonderful World himself Louis Armstrong smoked himself enough weed to choke out Snoop Dogg.

Drugs were making him fuck up? Fuck, drugs were as much a part of jazz as the goddamn instruments. Maybe more. Jay-Jay was waiting for the day that somebody, anybody could explain Bobby McFerrin to him.

Jay-Jay started to work his fingers around "Cool Walk" when he saw him heading up Metropolitan. Not too big. Carrying roses. Not the pricey boxed ones, but not the shitty deli roses, neither. He didn't look drunk. Perfect.

Jay-Jay walked the opposite side, crossed over about twenty feet ahead of the guy. He kept the knife pressed against the leg away from the dude. No need to show his hand early. As he got close, he saw that the guy was Asian, wearing a green corduroy coat. He thought for a second that it was the same Asian guy he'd hit a month or so back. That cat had four hundred bucks on him. Jay-Jay was disappointed when he realized that it wasn't the same guy. Goddamn Asians all looked the same to him, anyway.

"Them's some nice flowers, my man." Jay-Jay smiled wide and friendly. The curtain was up.

"Thanks." The guy smiled warily, but kept moving. This was Brooklyn, after all.

"Psst." The guy turned towards Jay-Jay again. Jay-Jay flashed the blade under the streetlight. The guy tensed, but didn't flake-all good, so far. Jay-Jay motioned towards the flowers with the tip of the blade, liked the dramatic effect the streetlight (spotlight) had as it danced off the edge. "You got love, man. That's a beautiful thing."

The guy looked from the blade, to Jay-Jay, then back at the blade. Jay-Jay felt for a second that the guy still seemed strangely under-intimidated. He went on with his lines. "So I'm asking you not to risk that. All I want is the money in your wallet. You keep those flowers and you give them to your pretty lady. You hold her in your arms and you forget this happened. You don't, I cut you. I'm not playing."

The guy nodded, chewed on his gum, calm as a pond at dawn.

This wasn't right.

The five or six cats he'd pulled this hustle on shook a little, at least. One big guy started crying as he handed over his wallet. It didn't make Jay-Jay proud or happy to frighten those men, but it made him realize what a powerful tool their love was when turned against them.

Except with this guy.

Then he held out the roses to Jay-Jay. "Hold these a sec?" he asked as he reached behind into his rear left pocket.

Stunned, Jay-Jay took the roses. This guy was too cool. It was starting to freak him out a little.

He had his arms full of the flowers before it dawned on Jay-Jay that most men tended to carry their wallets in their right back pocket, not the left…

The flowers exploded silently up and out from Jay-Jay's grasp, red petals pluming into his face. He heard metal hitting concrete and saw his knife lying next to a hydrant. How the hell did that get there? Jay-Jay turned to see the Asian guy moving quickly, a flash of silvery light underneath the streetlamp and Jay-Jay's legs weren't under him anymore. He slumped to the sidewalk and leaned against the hydrant. Sticky warmth rushed down the arm that once held the knife. Jay-Jay went to grab it, but found he couldn't close his hand any more. Rose petals floated down around him, like fragrant crimson raindrops. Jay-Jay pressed his working hand against his side. More warmth ran between his fingers. Had this little chink fucker cut him? He barely even saw him move.

"It was poor form, Jay-Jay," the Asian man said.

"How…how you know my name?" Jay-Jay's lips were growing numb. It was getting harder to speak.

"I know who you are, because you made it my business." The guy crouched down next to Jay-Jay. He wiped his own wicked-looking blade clean on Jay-Jay's pants leg. "One of the men you robbed? His father is an important man whom I work for. Your robbery insulted them. They wanted me to find you, so I did."

Jay-Jay felt strangely calm despite the alarming rate that the warmth was escaping his body. The coldness in his legs was almost comforting, like a slow dip into the little plastic pool that his uncle would fill up on the hottest summer days.

Jay-Jay smiled a little at the flicker of memory from his Louisiana childhood.

He hadn't thought of home in a long, long time.

He looked into his slasher's eyes and was surprised to find them warm. "It was that Japanese kid I mugged, wasn't it?"

The Asian guy laughed as he lit two cigarettes with a wooden match struck off the sidewalk. "That's profiling, Jay-Jay. So un-P.C." He stuck one filter between Jay-Jay's lips. "Besides, he was Chinese."

"Shit. I'm dyin', ain't I?"

"Yeah. You are. But you shouldn't be feeling any pain. I cut you cleanly."

"You're a fucking saint."

"I didn't have to." The guy stood. "It's a shame Jay-Jay. I saw you play at The Standard last spring. You were a great talent."

"Still am, for the next few minutes." Then he remembered his ruined right arm. "Shit, I'm not even that right now, am I?"

"Sorry."

"Tell me one thing…"